Title: Legion of the Living Dead
Author: Brant House
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Language: English
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Date first posted: July 2006
Date most recently updated: Aug 2017
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LEGION OF THE LIVING DEAD

by

Brant House

From nowhere hurtled that black death car. And from nowhere came
its grisly occupants. They were not of the earth, for their human
flesh was immune to bullets. They were not of the grave, for they
manned the wheel and a blasting machine gun...Secret Agent "X" made
a desperate maneuver to block their invasion of the land of the
living. And in that weird terror trap, he came face to face with a
man he knew—a man he knew had died five years ago.

CHAPTER I — HELL ON WHEELS

IT was an afternoon in late spring and from a cloudless sky, the
sun beat shimmering rays on the stream of motor cars that flowed
sluggishly along the narrow canyon between the rows of tall
buildings. Along the sidewalks, men and women, many of the richly
attired, hurried about their business and pleasure. It was a street
of wealth, a main stem of American finance.

But the men and women in the street seemed oblivious to the
criminal monster who preyed like a vampire upon this veritable
artery of wealth. Had they noticed the faces of the men in the
great black touring car that cruised along slowly with the traffic,
they might have lost some of their sense of security. For these men
were grim-faced police—one of many specially picked squadrons
that had been patrolling the streets day and night, waiting for the
radio call to duty—and probably to their own destruction.

The man at the wheel of the squad car was young for a position
that involved so much responsibility. His face told of many anxious
moments, of the torment of trying to fathom the unfathomable. He
steered the car without apparent effort, yet his every nerve was
keyed to a high pitch. His brilliant eyes strained ahead; yet
sometimes sought the rear vision mirror, watching for that with
which human forces seemed powerless to cope.

Suddenly, from the radio speaker came the voice of the police
announcer. At the first word, the driver of the squad car detected
a different note in the man's voice. The drab monotone was gone;
rather the announcer's voice was colored with a tremor of
excitement and dread. He was exercising his duty in transmitting
the message that had come to him, but he seemed to know that in
doing so he was sending some of his companions to their doom.

"Special cruiser twenty-four...Calling special cruiser
twenty-four," came from the loudspeaker. "Proceed at once to the
Krausman store. Robbery going on. Robbery going on at Krausman
store...Number one-three...Number one-three."

The last group of figures was simply a code which the department
used to identify the activities of a mysterious criminal gang which
had terrorized the city with daring thefts accompanied by what
amounted to nothing short of wholesale butchery.

As the driver of the squad car set his siren going, another very
human appeal came from the radio loud-speaker. For a moment, the
vast police organization was forgotten. It was simply one anxious
father speaking to his son: "For the love of God, watch your step,
Jimmy!"

The jaw of the young man at the wheel of the squad car was
thrust far forward, as his foot came down heavily upon the
accelerator. The police announcer was an elderly man who had been
pronounced unfit for active service. It was his son who manned the
wheel of Special Cruiser Twenty-four. Duty had made heavy demands
upon father and son. The anxiety of the father could well be
imagined. He might just as well have pronounced his own son's death
sentence.

A wide lane in the traffic appeared miraculously before the
speeding, screaming squad car. The police sat on the edge of the
cushions. Their knuckles whitened as they clenched the butts of
heavy revolvers. Now and again one of the men would send a strained
glance back through the rear window.

Suddenly, the man beside the young driver pinched his companion
s arm.

"It's coming!" His voice was hard and brittle, strained to the
breaking point. The driver's lower jaw protruded a bit more. He
uttered a heartening oath through clenched teeth. His eyes flashed
upward toward the rear vision mirror. The stretch of cleared street
behind them was broken by a sinister blot of speeding destruction.
A long-nosed streamlined roadster, black as midnight was rapidly
overhauling them.

THE police car was still three blocks from the scene of the
robbery and the car behind them seemed to have no speed limit. Nor
did the driver of the black roadster have any compassion for human
life. The police cruiser swerved sharply to avoid hitting a
careless pedestrian. A split second later, the black roadster bore
down upon the frightened man. The pedestrian became panic stricken,
put out both arms in a ridiculously futile effort to halt the
speeding car, and in the next moment was knocked flat—a
piteous blot that lay deathly still on the pavement.

The roadster was within a few feet of the squad car. Through the
rear window, the police could see the two men crouched low and
motionless in the cockpit. With a dexterous yank on the wheel, the
driver of the police car sent the cruiser far to the left, trying
to block off the black speed demon. But the driver of the roadster
was a match for any man. As the police car swerved to the left, the
roadster swung to the right. With a sudden almost unbelievable
burst of speed, the roadster pulled alongside. The ugly black snout
of a machine gun protruded over the door of the racer.

"Let 'em have it!" shouted a policeman. He leaned out so far
that he almost touched the black destroyer. His revolver blasted at
the noxious face of the man at the wheel. At such short range he
couldn't have missed.

The staccato voice of the machine gun shattered the roar of the
two overtaxed motors. Leaden hell raked the police cruiser from
stem to stern. One policeman, who had been daringly balanced far
out over the door of the car, pitched over the side and beneath the
grinding wheels of the black juggernaut. The young driver jerked
suddenly upright. A slug had drilled his chest. His teeth ground
together with a nerve-shattering sound that he never heard.

The steering wheel spun in his hands, completely out of control.
His pain-taut right leg crammed every ounce of gas into the
powerful motor. The police car broke into a rubber-burning skid,
careened across the street, caromed against a car, hurtled over the
curb, to crush innocent bystanders beneath its bounding wheels.
Screams from a hundred throats filled the street with terrific
clamor. The police cruiser slammed broadside through the glass
window of a department store and crumpled against a solid wall, a
mass of wreckage.

But the roar of the black roadster dimmed in the distance.
Though the driver had received at least two shots that would have
ordinarily proved fatal, the car sped unerringly onward in its mad
flight of destruction, to disappear up an alley some blocks
away.

Hysterical screams, frantic cries for help, drowned out the
groans of the maimed that the killers' car had left in its wake.
The sidewalk was strewn with corpses. Hoarse-voiced traffic police
battled their way through the panicky throng toward the wreckage in
front of the department store. A policeman, who had been thrown
from the wrecked car, struggled to his feet. Both of his hands
clutched at his side, in an instinctive but hopeless effort to
stanch the blood that flowed from a jagged wound. He tottered
forward to fall at the feet of a traffic policeman.

The traffic cop knelt. His arms went about the shoulders of the
fallen man. His fingers clenched tightly as if he hoped by some
super-human effort to check the ebbing life. The wounded man opened
his eyes and recognized the man who held him.

"Fergeson," came his husky whisper, "that—that man in that
roadster! The man with the machine gun. I shot him—shot right
through him. He was Mack O'Brien's big gunman. He was Slash Carmody
in the flesh!"

The traffic policeman stared incredulously at the wounded man.
For Slash Carmody, killer formally employed by one of the
underworld barons, had died in the electric chair in Sing Sing not
more than forty-eight hours ago.

TWO blocks farther up the street from the point of the police
car disaster was the famous Krausman Jewelry Store. A few minutes
before the police cruiser had received its instructions to proceed
to the jeweler's, Mr. Peter Krausman was sitting in his office,
placidly smoking a thick, mahogany-colored cigar. He was a large,
swarthy-skinned man with an unpleasantly crooked nose. Replacing
his somber Oxford-gray garments with something brighter, and adding
the flash of gold rings bobbing at the lobes of his ears, an artist
would have had a perfect model for a Gypsy king.

Yet while Krausman seemed to be basking in the security of his
own wealth, his impassiveness was a mere pose. Every nerve fiber
within his body tingled in anticipation of action. His heart
throbbed with slow, steady strokes; his mighty brain dwelt upon but
one problem—a problem only remotely related to the jewelry
business.

Through the glass window of his office door, he watched a
pleasant-faced, redheaded man who was trying, clumsily enough, to
sell a fine jade bracelet to a strange, dark-complexioned man with
a pin-point moustache and a long, stringy goatee. The dark man was
famous throughout the city. He was Dr. Jules Planchard, a skilled
plastic surgeon. Other clerks, more experienced, looked askance at
the redheaded man. Obviously, the snap judgment of Krausman had
failed for once. The redhead was certainly no salesman. Would he
allow so valuable a customer as Jules Planchard to go out empty
handed?

Planchard, however, seemed to have made up his mind as to what
he wanted. He glanced at his wristwatch, waved toward the jade
bracelet and ordered the redhead to wrap it up. He paid for the
bracelet, thrust it into his pocket and left the store.

The redheaded clerk turned his attention to a pretty young girl
who had just asked to look at wrist-watches. In the office, Peter
Krausman chuckled grimly. The redhead was much less interested in
his attractive customer than he was in keeping half an eye on the
front door.

Suddenly, the humor vanished from the swarthy face of Peter
Krausman. He was watching the right hand of the redheaded clerk. It
had been resting on the glass top of the counter. Suddenly, it
snapped upward, and drummed twice on the counter. Krausman sprang
to his feet, started toward the door of the office. Beyond, he
could see the flashing body of a beautifully appointed sedan that
had come to a stop in front of the store. The redheaded clerk shot
a glance at the office, seized the young woman who had been
contemplating the purchase of a wrist-watch. In spite of her
vehement protestations, he pushed her back behind the counter, and
through a small door in the wall.

A fellow clerk, inclined toward gallantry, stepped in front of
the redhead. The redheaded man gave the intruder a vigorous
push.

At the same moment that Peter Krausman catapulted through the
door of his office, four men barged through the front door. They
were men whose right hands were thrust deeply into coat pockets
that failed entirely to disguise the shape of the automatics that
they held. They were men whose unmasked faces were sharp with
ratlike cunning. Deathly pallid faces they were, faces out of the
past, faces of men who had figured prominently in old police
records until death had chalked them from the list of public
enemies.

Even the alert mind of Krausman who had been prepared for
something of the sort, was for a moment stunned by the appearance
of these gunmen. He recognized them to a man. Every one a hardened
criminal, but every face the face of a corpse.

"Everybody back against the wall," the raucous voice of the
foremost member of the gang commanded. By the livid welt on his
left cheek, Krausman recognized him as "Scar" Fassler, a criminal
who five years ago had been pronounced dead by the prison officials
who had removed his body from the electric chair.

OUTSIDE the store, a police whistle sounded. A stalwart,
blue-coated figure sprang through the door. Scar Fassler wheeled
about. His automatic nosed from his pocket. The policeman dared not
fire, for the scar-faced gunman had taken a strategic position
directly in front of the group of clerks which the gunman had
herded back against the wall. He had the policeman entirely at his
mercy, and for a moment he paused, enjoying his advantage.

Suddenly, Krausman, who had been covered by criminal guns as
soon as he entered the room, displayed remarkable courage and
agility. He sprang straight toward the gunman who threatened him.
The gun in the criminal's pocket coughed, but Krausman was
unchecked. His gnarled right fist drove straight into the face of
the surprised criminal. The blow fairly lifted the man from his
feet, but even before he had struck the floor, Krausman had hurled
himself upon Scar Fassler. Fassler sent one hurried shot at the
policeman in the doorway, turned, and fired point-blank at
Krausman.

The shot struck Krausman, and for an instant he tottered. But it
was only a ruse. In seeming to fall forward, Krausman's legs shot
out like two springs of steel, launching him in a flying tackle.
His broad shoulder struck Fassler's knees. The corpse-faced gunman
tried to spring backward out of the way of Krausman's clawing
fingers. But the jeweler seized Fassler by the ankle.

The gunman crashed to the floor, twisted over, and kicked
Krausman in the head with his hard left shoe. For a moment the hold
on the gunman's ankle relaxed. Fassler sprang to his feet with an
oath. His gun swung around, this time aimed at the jeweler's
head.

Though on the floor, groggy from Fassler's cruel kick, Krausman
must have realized the peril of his position. The two shots that
had already stuck him had been rendered ineffectual by the
bullet-proof vest he wore. Fassler knew this. This time, he would
shoot for the jeweler's head.

A shot rang out. But it was not from Fassler's gun. Krausman's
redheaded clerk, who had been engaged in a hand to hand conflict
with one of the mobsters, had discovered his employer's peril. The
redhead had suddenly drawn a gun from his pocket, and tried a snap
shot that struck the barrel of Fassler's automatic. The gun was
knocked from the mobster's hand. Deprived of his weapon, Scar
Fassler's small piggish eyes filled with terror.

"It's a trap, boys!" he shouted. He sprang toward the redhead
whose well-placed shot had saved Krausman's life. Fassler's was the
courage of a cornered rat. He ignored the sudden threatening
forward thrust of the redhead's gun.

"No, Jim! Don't shoot!"

It was Mr. Krausman who had shouted this warning to the
redheaded man. Krausman knew that panic possessed Fassler, that the
mere sight of a gun would not halt him. But he must be taken alive,
if a man who had died in the electric chair could ever again be
called alive.

The redhead heard his employer's warning, and held his fire.
Fassler swung with his left, a long fast blow that the redhead
failed to duck. The man called Jim staggered back against a
counter. Krausman had pulled himself to his feet, and was coming
toward Fassler with a gun in his hand. Fassler shot a glance toward
the door. His companions had beat a hasty retreat as soon as he had
uttered his warning. Instead of making toward the front door as
Krausman evidently expected him to, the scar-faced gunman sprang
back toward the office.

Krausman had recovered his agility. He ran in the same direction
that Fassler had taken. The criminal sprang through the door of the
office, slammed it, and twisted the key in the lock. Krausman
back-stepped, hunched his shoulder, and drove like a battering-ram
at the door. Tenons of the door squawled apart under the power
behind Krausman's heavy shoulder, but the door held. Krausman's
right shoe came up in a kick that shattered the door glass.
Disregarding the cutting fragments of glass that still adhered to
the frame, Krausman straddled the frame and in another moment was
in the office.

But a second door had opened and closed behind Fassler—the
door into Mr. Krausman's shower and lavatory. Krausman believed
that Fassler was trapped. A heave from his powerful shoulder burst
open the bolt of the door. The door sprang open, and Krausman, gun
in hand, stood in the room, looking bewilderedly about him.

FASSLER, the scar-faced gunman, who for five years had been
officially dead, had apparently vanished like a ghost.

His swarthy brow deeply furrowed, Krausman stared about the
room. He walked over and opened the frosted glass door of the
shower. Empty. He turned to a small linen-closet and opened it.
Again he had drawn blank. But no—What was that square of
blackness at one end of the closet? Krausman took a small
fountain-pen flashlight from his pocket and switched on its
needle-like ray. The light showed a large square hole that had been
cut in the wall. It revealed the water pipes that led to the shower
bath. Had this hole been left open in order to make the shower
pipes accessible for repairs?

The alert mind behind the swarthy face of Peter Krausman had
suggested a double purpose in this opening. He reached out his hand
and touched the pipes with the tips of his fingers. His keen sense
of touch had detected a slight vibration in those pipes. Then he
knew how Fassler had engineered his surprising escape. The opening
evidently extended down into the basement of the building. The
pipes, had they been placed there expressly for the purpose, could
not have offered a better means of descent.

But how had Fassler known of this opening? Surely he had not
stumbled upon it by chance. For a moment, Krausman debated whether
to follow. He decided that he wouldn't. Fassler had gone unerringly
to the one rat-hole that had offered him a means of escape. He had
evidently the advantage of knowing much more about the building
than the swarthy-faced man who, to all appearances, owned it.

It was an odd situation. And for a moment amusement glinted the
eyes of the man who until an hour ago had never entered the
Krausman Building. But it was a situation that to some extent
explained the courageous actions of the man who appeared to be a
wealthy merchant, unused to violence and hand to hand encounters
with criminals.

For the swarthy face of the man, who at that moment had
discovered a secret exit from the building, was merely the result
of clever disguise. Beneath dark-colored pigment, beneath plastic
material and face plates which had counterfeited Peter Krausman's
features in every detail, was a face that no living person had
seen—the face of Secret Agent "X."

Acting upon a tip that had traveled the length of the
underworld's grapevine telegraph, Agent "X" had taken advantage of
the real Peter Krausman's absence from New York. He had
deliberately impersonated the wealthy jeweler, knowing to a
certainty that the most ruthless gang of robbers that he had ever
encountered had planned to loot the Krausman Store.

He had staked much to frustrate the thieves' scheme. But his
chief desire was to capture one of the members of the gang and thus
dispel the mystery that had baffled the police. For though the idea
seemed too ridiculous to warrant its publication in newspapers, the
entire gang of murderous thieves seemed to be made up of criminals
who had long since died. Scar Fassler was only one of a legion of
corpse criminals.

Had some master scientist actually discovered the long-sought
secret for reviving the dead? Had some mad doctor taken criminals,
fresh from the execution room, and brought them back to life, to
recruit a vast underworld army of men who, knowing death once,
would not fear it a second time?

This was the riddle that Secret Agent "X" sought to solve. Wise
in the way of the perverted geniuses who directed major crime
groups, "X" knew that the knowledge of life eternal could be a
greater scourge than all the lethal weapons that man could produce.
Fear of death, he knew, was the only thing that prevented thousands
of men from forsaking the law for the lawless.

CHAPTER II — GREEN EYES

TURNING from the shower room, Secret Agent "X" disguised as
Krausman the jeweler, encountered the redheaded clerk who had
conducted himself so courageously throughout the encounter with the
criminals. His hair was a tangled mop, and his jaw was swollen.

"What happened to that scar-face?" he demanded excitedly. "I've
seen that man before. He looked like a hood by the name of Fassler.
But Fassler is supposed to be dead. You should have let me shoot
him, Mr. Krausman."

"No, Hobart. I wanted him alive," declared Agent "X." He
conducted Jim Hobart to the closet in the shower room, and showed
him the hole in the floor. "That will bear investigation, Jim. I
hadn't the slightest idea there was anything of that nature in
here. It seems to be an avenue of escape well known to that
criminal."

Frowning, Jim Hobart looked from the opening in the floor to the
swarthy face of the man who had employed him. Perhaps he was
thinking that it was extremely odd that Peter Krausman did not know
every detail of his own office.

"Did they get much loot?" Secret Agent "X" asked of his
aide.

Hobart shook his head. "But that policeman was badly wounded.
One of your customers, a Mr. Stinehope, was knocked out. That's
about all at this end of the line."

"What do you mean by that?" inquired "X."

"Why, Commissioner Foster is outside there now with a group of
police and he told me that the officer who was shot got in an alarm
before he entered the store. One of those special squad cars was on
its way here when they encountered that mysterious black roadster
with the mounted machine gun—the car that's been made so much
of in the papers."

"X" seized Hobart by the arm. "Did it—"

* AUTHOR'S NOTE: Followers of the "X" chronicles have probably
recognized the redheaded clerk as Jim Hobart, the young man who
directs the Hobart Detective agency, one of the units in the Secret
Agent's vast crime fighting organization. Though the Hobart group
resembles any other private detective bureau in that it is at the
service of the public, Jim Hobart's first duty is toward Agent "X",
who befriended him in a time of need. In as much as Hobart knew "X"
only in the character of A. J. Martin, a newspaper correspondent,
it is little wonder that he failed to recognize his friend when "X"
adopted the identity of Peter Krausman.

Hobart's nod interrupted him. "The police car was completely
wrecked. Only one of the men is expected to recover. No clues at
all as to the mystery car. In fact, the mystery has deepened. It
seems that the sole survivor of the police car wreck insists that
he got in several shots at the driver of the death car. Two of the
shots went home, he is certain. Yet the car steered unerringly on
its course, the machine gun spitting death."

"Maybe the driver of the black roadster wore a bulletproof
vest," the Agent suggested, "just as you and I did."

Hobart nodded. "Possible, of course. But this cop, who's
expected to pull through, swears that he sent a bullet straight
through the forehead of the driver of the mystery car. The driver
didn't so much as budge, he says. What is more, the cop recognized
the man as Slash Carmody—who was executed in Sing Sing only a
day or so ago."

Frowning, Agent "X" turned toward the door of the office. On the
other side of the broken glass, he saw a grave-faced man of medium
height whom he recognized immediately as Police Commissioner
Foster. Foster's thin lips curved into a smile. He nodded at the
man he supposed to be Krausman, opened the door and walked in.

"One of your customers informs me that you managed to frustrate
this attempt to rob your store, Mr. Krausman. You are to be
congratulated."

Agent "X" shrugged. "I am afraid that your praise has fallen in
the wrong place, commissioner. If it hadn't been for Mr. Hobart,
here, I wouldn't be talking to you at this moment."

THE police commissioner nodded at Hobart just a bit reservedly.
Though the Hobart Detective Agency was rapidly making a name for
itself, Foster habitually regarded all private detectives with
suspicion.

Another man appeared in the office door. He was small,
gray-eyed, and thoughtful looking. "X" recognized the man as one
who had entered the store only a few moments before the robbery.
The little man stroked thin, blond hair nervously, and glanced from
Foster to "X."

"Commissioner," he said hesitantly, "what is to be done? I
declare, the police make no headway against this mob of killers!
Mr. Krausman has done more to check them than the police." The man
opened the door of the office, and approached "X" with his thin
right hand extended. "I would like to shake your hand, sir.
Stinehope is my name."

Agent "X" took Stinehope's limp hand. Stinehope was a name that
had been famous in the banking world. For the past year, however,
the bank which Stinehope had directed had been closed.
Nevertheless, little Mr. Stinehope seemed to retain an envied
position in the realm of finance.

Commissioner Foster winced slightly. "I am sure we all commend
Mr. Krausman most highly, Mr. Stinehope. However, we can all feel
somewhat relieved. The police force is about to be firmly
reinforced by one of the greatest criminologists this city has
known. I had a long talk with my old friend and former superior,
Major Derrick. Derrick, you will remember, was the police
commissioner who retired in my favor some time ago. He has promised
to give us every assistance. He should be here by now."

"And now, Mr. Krausman," said Foster, "can you give us a
description of some of the men who took part in this attempted
looting of your store?"

Agent "X" frowned. "Perhaps I can. I think there were four of
them. That right, Hobart?"

"The leader," Agent "X" continued, "had a long scar down his
left cheek—or perhaps it was his right."

He knew that it would not do for him to give too accurate a
description. In the character he was playing, he would not be
expected to show as much accuracy in matters of detail as a trained
criminologist would.

Commissioner Foster fumbled in his pocket and brought out a
picture. "This the man?" he asked. He handed the picture to
"X."

The Secret Agent took the picture. It was indeed the photograph
of the supposedly dead Scar Fassler. He nodded slowly.
"Undoubtedly, that is the man."

At that moment, the door of the office snapped open. A wiry,
blond little man who seemed a bundle of nerves stepped into the
room. He jerked a bird-like glance from first one to another of the
men in the room. The nostrils of his little nose spread, and he
inhaled quickly and noisily as if he were taking snuff.

"Foster!" he rapped.

The commissioner turned, a smile lighting his usually grave
face. He seized the newcomer's hand, began pumping it up and down.
"Major Derrick! You're just in time to help us out!"

"Glad to, glad to," Derrick sputtered. He nodded at Stinehope.
"Hello, hello." He turned on "X," looked him up and down. "Mr.
Krausman, I suppose. Hello. Most unfortunate circumstances." He
sniffed sharply.

"Derrick," said Foster, "Mr. Krausman has positively identified
the man who led this mob as Scar Fassler!"

Turning abruptly to "X," Derrick rapped out: "And what would Mr.
Krausman say if I told him I saw Fassler executed in the electric
chair five years ago?"

AGENT "X" regarded the blond Lt. Major Derrick for a moment. "I
would be inclined to say that one of us had made a mistake."

"Possible, possible," Derrick whipped out. "But I don't make
mistakes of that sort, Mr. Krausman. And, I might add, you do not
appear to me as a man who makes mistakes."

"How does it happen that you were prepared for this holdup, Mr.
Krausman?" asked Stinehope curiously.

Agent "X" laughed. "When you have half a million dollars tied up
in rare gems, you don't take chances, Mr. Stinehope. I always have
some one in the store to watch things. Today, it just happened to
be Jim Hobart."

Foster turned to his former superior. "What would be our best
first move, major?" he demanded.

Derrick sniffed. "Reward, first off. Post a reward for a
starter. We need a responsible citizen, some one the people respect
to head a committee to post a reward." His birdlike eyes jumped at
Stinehope. "The very man!" his voice lashed like a whip.
"Stinehope, will you head the reward committee? Advise you to make
the appointment, Foster, if Stinehope will accept. And you will,
eh?"

Stinehope considered a moment. Then: "Certainly. I will be glad
to do anything."

"Good!" declared Foster. "Will talk with you in a moment,
Stinehope. And now, Krausman, can you give us any further
information concerning the men in the criminal group?"

"X" shook his head. "I'm afraid I'm not very observant. I
suggest that you interrogate Mr. Hobart. He is trained in such
matters. I'm rather tired now. If you don't mind, I'll look around
the store, and see if there has been much damage or anything
stolen."

WITHOUT waiting for permission, "X" strode through the door of
the office. He had sighted a group of news-hungry reporters, and
among them a young girl. She was undeniably beautiful. From beneath
her jaunty hat, he observed wisps of golden hair. Her starry eyes
were deep blue. Her smart attire became her perfect figure.

As the man who looked like Peter Krausman entered the store
proper, the reporters came at him in a body, waving notebooks and
clamoring for permission to take pictures. "X" endured the
searching rays of photoflash lamps, and then tried to get past them
toward the door.

"Statement for the press, Mr. Krausman?"

"Sure, give us a story, Mr. Krausman."

"Yeah, tell us how it feels to sock a gunman."

Agent "X" smiled: "Try it yourself and get first hand
information," he suggested.

"Ah, give us a break!" a young reporter appealed.

"Very well. But I dislike talking before a crowd. One of you,
that young lady, perhaps—I'll see in private. She can give
you all the story when I'm through."

Smiling, the golden-haired girl came forward. This was Betty
Dale of the Herald. Little did she know that this swarthy-skinned
man with the broken nose was her old friend, Secret Agent "X."

*AUTHOR'S NOTE: Daughter of a former member of the police force,
it seemed a natural course of events that Betty Dale should turn to
police reporting when she became old enough to select a career.
Though left alone in the world, she was not without
friends—many of them detectives who knew her father. But her
staunchest friend, and the man she admires most, is Secret Agent
"X". Together, they have encountered many perilous adventures,
previously recorded. Her admiration for the Agent has grown to a
beautiful, unselfish love.

"Where can we go, Mr. Krausman?" she asked.

"X" indicated a little room apart from the store proper. There
were a number of similar rooms in the building. Some were used as
showrooms to display gems of rarest quality to prospective buyers.
Others were small offices set apart for certain members of
Krausman's staff.

"Don't hold out on us, Betty," cautioned one of the reporters
good naturedly as "X," steering Betty by the elbow, entered the
tiny room. The Secret Agent closed the door, and quietly twisted
the key in the lock. He turned toward Betty, a smile on his thick
lips. If the girl wondered at his locking the door so carefully,
there was no sign of alarm on her lovely face.

"Please sit down." The Agent indicated a chair behind a small
walnut telephone desk. She complied with his request, spread her
notebook before her, and regarded the man she believed to be Peter
Krausman inquiringly.

"If you don't mind, I should like to hear the story of the
robbery as you observed it, Mr. Krausman. Just when did you first
realize that the store was being held up?"

"X" seated himself on the edge of the telephone desk. "I knew
that it would be held up nearly ten hours ago. I really don't know
just how I would have managed to be here at the exact moment, if it
hadn't been that Krausman left town this morning."

"Then don't bother your pretty head about it any longer. Perhaps
this will clarify matters for you, Betty." Secret Agent "X's"
forefinger traced the letter "X" on top of the desk.

"No!" she exclaimed excitedly. She smiled happily. "I should
have known! But—but I never do. I had no idea that these
strange robberies were so serious as to attract your
attention."

*AUTHOR'S NOTE: It should be explained for the benefit of those
who meet the Agent for the first time herein, that though Betty
Dale has met him often enough to know him probably more than any
other person, she has never seen his true face. Her love for him is
not based upon romantic dreams revolving about this man of mystery;
it is the underlying, thoroughly human qualities of the man that
attract her. For always, Agent "X" is kindly to those who merit
kindness; never has he willingly harmed the defenseless. Even his
enemies attest the quality of his mercy.

"Not serious, Betty? Do you realize that in the last two weeks
nearly a score of police have met death in conflict with that black
car?"

"Then there is a definite connection between the mystery car and
these robberies?"

"Assuredly. As soon as a robbery call goes out over the radio,
that black, torpedo-shaped car puts in its appearance. With total
disregard for the lives of innocent bystanders, the machine gun on
the killers' car opens up. Slugs rake the squad cars hurrying to
the scene of the robbery. Not once have the police reached the
scene of the robbery in time to prevent the crime from being
committed." The face of the man who looked like Krausman became
suddenly grim. "It is the most ruthless butchery I've ever
encountered! The man behind it all must be bent on wiping out the
entire police force. And through it all, he remains hidden, as
invisible as a black panther at midnight and far more
dangerous."

"Have you any idea who the hidden criminal may be?" Betty
asked.

"Not the slightest," replied "X" without hesitation.

A WORRIED frown crossed Betty's face. "Commissioner Foster
thinks he knows," she said. "I was in his office this morning when
he received a mysterious note. He permitted me to make a copy. But
I just can't turn it into the Herald. It's too absurd!"

"May I see it?" "X" asked.

The girl reached into the pocket of her jacket, and took out a
piece of paper. "It—it frightens me," she said simply as she
handed the note over to "X."

The Secret Agent opened the paper and read through the letter
quickly.

Dear Foster:

This is an open challenge. Dare you pick up the glove? For every
man who has met death at the hands of the law, I shall take the
lives of ten members of the police force. A vaster army than you
can muster is behind me. It is the Legion of Corpses. The secret of
life eternal is mine; yet to my enemies, I mete out certain death.
Dare you take up the glove?

The paper jerked almost imperceptibly in the Agent's hands. For
this open challenge from the lawless to the law was signed, "Secret
Agent 'X'."

"X" looked at Betty. A fear that his smile could not dispel was
in her deep blue eyes. "You know what that means?" she asked.
"Foster will demand your capture, alive or—or—"

The Agent laughed quietly. "There's been a price on my head
before. Go ahead and publish that note in your paper. If you don't,
some other paper will. It doesn't matter, anyway." He handed the
piece of paper across the desk.

As Betty extended her hand for the note, her elbow knocked over
the telephone. The girl uttered a startled: "Oh!" and started to
recover the instrument.

Agent "X's" hand shot out and closed over her wrist. A strange
change had come over his face. His eyes were like bright points of
gleaming steel. Gently, he disengaged Betty's fingers from the
phone, picked up the instrument, and stared at it a moment before
setting it down. Then he slid from the desk, crossed the room on
tiptoe, one finger on his lips. He beckoned to Betty. Wonderingly,
the girl got up, and followed him. The Secret Agent put both hands
on her shoulders, bent his head, and whispered into her ear:

"Go back to the desk, sit as you were sitting, and keep talking
for about a minute. Then, newspaper or no newspaper, leave this
office immediately. I don't want to hide from you the fact that you
are in deadly danger. Avoid all strangers. Take care of yourself,
but don't be afraid. Go back now." He gave her a gentle push, and
turned toward the door.

AGENT "X" unlocked the door, opened it, and stepped outside.
Reporters were waiting for him, eager with questions. With his back
to the door, "X" inserted the key in the lock, and turned it. Then
he dropped the key to the floor, found it with his heel, and kicked
it under the door.

"Where's Miss Dale?" demanded one of the reporters.

"Inside," the Agent explained. "She's putting her notes in some
order. Don't worry; she'll not hold out on you." Then he pushed
past the reporters, turned abruptly to the left, and entered
another office. It was empty. He hurried over to the desk and bent
over the telephone. A moment's scrutiny told him what he wanted to
know. Beneath the receiver hook of the instrument, was a small
wooden wedge driven far enough in to open the telephone circuit. A
similar wedge he had seen on the phone in the room in which he had
talked to Betty.

It was safe to wager that every phone in the building had been
similarly opened so that anyone listening at any of the extension
phones on the circuit might have heard his conversation with Betty
Dale.

As "X" hurried from the little office he was wondering if the
robbery attempt that afternoon had been the failure he had thought
it to be. Perhaps there was another motive—one that spelled
danger for himself—and for Betty Dale. He wondered, too, if
Krausman's absence from the city that afternoon was as innocent as
it appeared to be.

Avoiding Commissioner Foster and Major Derrick, who were busy
with the police investigation, "X" hurried along the wall of the
store, stopping at every door to look in the rooms beyond. All were
empty. The police had herded all the store's employees into one
group, and were busy firing questions at them.

Agent "X" turned to the back of the store, glanced into
Krausman' s office, and hurried on to another room where were the
vaults in which Krausman kept certain valuable jewels. The door was
locked.

Taking from his pocket a bunch of master keys, without which he
never ventured forth, he selected one that would fit the lock. In
another moment, he was inside the room. It, too, was empty. But "X"
immediately noticed the absence of the telephone which usually sat
upon the desk. The phone wire itself passed beneath the slightly
raised window and out into the alley.

"X" picked up a straight office chair and quietly tiptoed to the
window. Raising the chair level with his chest, his arms shot out
like two pistons. The chair crashed through the glass. "X" followed
the chair, leaping over the sill to drop ten feet into the alley
outside. Recovering his balance immediately, he glimpsed the phone
swinging against the outer wall. A small window-washer's ladder
leaned against the wall. But these were minor details and the
matter of only a moment's observation. Near the window was a sleek,
cream-colored roadster. The door was open and a woman was just
stepping in. She sent one glance over her shoulder before dropping
into the deep cushions.

For a moment, "X" saw her face, though partially concealed by
the soft fur that trimmed the collar of her extravagantly beautiful
dress. Her face was small, nearly round, and dark complexioned. Her
lips slightly voluptuous, were rouged a striking shade of red that
was almost like Chinese lacquer. Her nose was slightly up-tilted
and her eyes were actually arresting; true emerald green, they were
beneath long, penciled brows that curved upwards at the outer
extremities.

But what struck Agent "X" as being extremely important was the
flash of green in the bracelet about her left wrist. He was certain
that the woman wore the jade bracelet that he had watched Dr. Jules
Planchard purchase.

The woman's lips parted, emitting a husky, purring sort of
laugh.

"X" saw that the motor of the car was running. He sprang toward
it in an effort to catch hold of the spare-tire carrier, but even
as he leaped, the clutch grabbed and the car scudded off down the
alley.

"X" PIVOTED. A trim black sedan, one of the Agent's own cars,
was parked directly behind the jewelry store. He made for it,
sprang into the front compartment, and plugged at the starter. The
motor kicked over, thrummed smoothly. He shifted gears soundlessly
and gave the great super-charged motor all the gas it would take.
Like a black projectile, his car shot down the alley.

Ahead of him, the woman's roadster nosed through a traffic lane,
and turned to the right. "X" rounded the corner, his car whining in
second gear. He cleared the broad bumper of a moving truck by a
hair's breadth, purposely threw the car into a skid that shied it
across the track of a speeding sedan. Ahead, the cream-colored
roadster wove through traffic, putting two more cars between its
tail-lamp and the nose of the Agent's car.

He accelerated, sounded his horn, and crowded the car in front
of him to the curb. A comparatively clear lane ahead, the
cream-colored car, with its exotic driver, pulled away. The tweet
of a traffic officer's whistle was wasted on unheeding ears. The
green-eyed woman could drive, and her car was capable of taking all
she gave it.

"X" had seen the green-eyed woman before. Felice Vincart was her
real name, but it had given place to the alias she had made famous.
Snatched from the variety stage by an ardent young millionaire who
had fallen in love with her, Felice Vincart had found herself a
widow after a few months. In spite of her wealth, she had not
gained a position in the social register. She remained known not by
her husband's name but by the alias she had made famous. When the
tabloids exploited her voluptuous beauty she was invariably called
"The Leopard Lady."

It was an appropriate appellation; for Felice Vincart had a
grace and manner that was actually feline. Her act in the theater
had consisted of a wild, barbaric dance, revolving about two great
leopards which she herself had trained.

How had the Leopard Lady, with all the pleasures that money
could buy at her disposal, become associated with the criminal who
directed the activities of the sinister corpse legion? Perhaps a
life of indolence had held no thrills for the woman who had tamed
jungle beasts.

Agent "X" had little time to dwell on how the Leopard Lady had
allied herself with the terrible group. He was fully occupied in
keeping on her weaving trail that defied every traffic ordinance.
Suddenly, quite as if by accident, the cream-colored car swerved to
avoid a car coming from the opposite direction. Its front wheel
clipped the corner of the curb and the car bounded into an
alley.

"X" followed, wheeling his car across the street and into the
alley. Ahead of him, the cream-colored car had slowed down. "X"
spurted, and in another moment was forced to cram on his brakes
with all the strength of his right leg. From a covered driveway, a
huge truck had backed across the alley. The Agent was as
effectually separated from his quarry as if a stone wall had
suddenly been conjured up in front of him. In spite of his quick
action and the superior power of his brakes he did not stop until
the nose of his car had mashed against the panel of the truck.

Was this opportune intervention a coincidence? The Secret Agent
thought not. Everything had fallen in too perfectly with the
Leopard Lady's plan of escape. He could almost hear her husky,
purring laugh of triumph.

"X" knocked open the door of his car and leaped to the pavement.
In a moment his question was definitely answered. It was no
coincidence; it was a perfectly laid trap set to catch one
man—Secret Agent "X."

From the doorway of flanking buildings poured a small army of
men—corpse-faced criminals from out of the past. With the
confidence their numbers gave them, they rushed upon "X,"
blunt-nose automatics firmly gripped in their fists. The Agent drew
his gun with his right hand, at the same time sending a short,
jolting left to the side of the foremost criminal's head. The man
dropped without a groan. "X's" gas gun, that marvelous weapon of
his own development, hissed like a snake. A cloud of the powerful
anesthetizing vapor blasted a second criminal into oblivion.

Completely surrounded, "X" fought like one possessed of the
devil. He hacked at heads with the barrel of his gun, wary of using
the gas with which it was loaded lest in the mad, battling
maelstrom of humanity some of the anesthetizing fumes reach his own
lungs. The gang, he knew, would avoid using their automatics lest
the sound of shots draw in police interference.

"X" got a grip around the waist of one of his opponents, lifted
the man bodily, and would have hurled him to the pavement had he
not at that moment been struck a powerful blow from behind. Off
balance, he sprawled to the pavement. Like starved wolves, the mob
was upon him, holding him down by sheer weight of numbers. A gun
barrel crashed into his head—once—twice. Agent "X"
dipped into oblivion.

CHAPTER III — TORTURE

SECRET AGENT "X's" first sensation was that of motion. The cold
air of speed was biting into his cheeks. He opened his eyes, and
stared straight ahead of him where automobile headlamps were
beaming down a dark and narrow street. He tried to move. He could
only turn his head; his feet were lashed to the brake and clutch
pedals of the speeding car, and his hands were firmly fastened to
the steering wheel.

He could not speak. A hard, conical-shaped gag, similar to the
old French poire d'angoisse had forced his jaws apart. He looked
about him. Dirty brick dwellings rushed by on either side of the
street. The speedometer hovered around fifty, but aside from the
helpless Secret Agent, the roadster was empty.

"X" tried to depress the brake pedal. It was fixed in place. It
was impossible for him to turn the steering wheel or cut the gas.
The motor rolled smoothly, guided by some gigantic, invisible
force. Secret Agent "X," champion of justice, was riding,
apparently driving, the mystery car which the corpse-criminals had
made the terror of the city.

That the car was robot-driven seemed to be the only explanation.
Looking back over his shoulder, "X" could see another car a block
or more behind. It was possible, he knew, to steer a car by robot
radio control from another car. Still, with a block or more
distance between the two cars, it seemed impossible that the car in
which "X" was riding could be so unerringly managed.

His first thought was that the mystery car in which he rode
would be driven into some accident that would be fatal for "X." But
surely a gang which killed as the corpse-criminal mob did, would
not go to the trouble of trying to make one murder out of scores
appear as an accident.

The mystery car suddenly slowed down as though unseen giants
were hauling on the wheels. It turned the corner, rolled on to a
choppy pavement, turned into a drive, and slid through dark garage
doors. Instantly, the doors closed, and "X" was in a darkness like
black velvet.

A moment of silence was followed by a strange, clanking sound.
"X" was conscious of some one close at hand moving through the
darkness. Something rattled on the door of the car. A cold claw of
iron clutched about his left wrist and locked there. "X" struggled
with all his Herculean strength to break his bonds. But they
resisted his every effort. The clanging sound continued. Some one
was rounding the nose of the car. Again a claw of steel met his
flesh. A second bracelet of metal encircled his right wrist.

Then the beam of a flashlight struck down through the darkness,
illuminating the under-cowl of the car. He heard the sound of heavy
breathing. And in the reflected rays of light, Agent "X" saw the
distorted features of Scar Fassler. A long knife was in the big
mobster's hand. Its keen blade sliced through the cords that bound
"X" to the pedals and steering wheel.

The Agent saw that his wrists were linked by a heavy log chain.
A leader of steel cable ran from the chain to a loop set in the
garage wall. Fassler grinned up into the Agent's face.

"Whyn't you try a sock at me now, Mr. 'X'," he goaded. "Which
freshest up my memory to the fact that I owe you a poke, don't I?"
Fassler's great fist fanned the air in a haymaker which "X"
attempted to duck. But the blow landed on his jaw, sending flames
of pain through his head, and setting his ears to ringing. The
Agent gritted his teeth. Great muscles in his arms rippled and drew
taut beneath his flesh. His steely eyes burned with cold fire.

Fassler grinned. "You goin' to get out, or do I knock you out?"
He raised his right hand, balled around an automatic.

"X" shrugged, kicked open the door of the car, and stepped out.
In spite of the weight of the chains, he carried himself perfectly
erect. He moved easily across the garage toward the loop which
confined him. Fassler followed.

WHEN within a yard of the wall, Agent "X" turned around. With a
speed that took Fassler completely unawares, "X" swung the heavy
chain above his head, and brought it down in a blow that landed on
Fassler's right forearm. A harsh cry of pain ripped from Fassler's
throat. The automatic in his hand fell to the floor. "X" dropped to
his knees and, manacled though he was, recovered the weapon.

The blow which he had given Fassler might easily have broken his
arm. The gunman had dropped to the floor.

Suddenly, "X" heard a faint rustle behind him. He pivoted. A
shadowy thing of uncertain shape swirled down upon him. His head
was blanketed in a soft black rope that reeked with the sweetish
odor of chloroform. To battle in such intoxicating darkness was
hopeless. "X" felt himself seized in powerful arms. Then he became
a floating thing without substance.

When Agent "X" came out of his drugged sleep, he found himself
alone in a small room. A single door with a small barred window was
the only break in the monotony of the four walls. He was dizzy and
nauseated from the effects of the chloroform. For a few moments, he
lay perfectly still upon the floor, eyes wandering about the room.
Not far from him was a complex apparatus partially hidden by a
black screen centered with an opaque window of some white material.
This he recognized as the most up-to-date television receiver on
the market.

For a while, he watched it dully, wondering what its purpose
could be. Then he sat up. The manacles had been removed. He ran his
fingers over his face to make sure that his make-up was intact.

At the instant that his fingers touched his face, his heart
pounded in his throat. His groping fingers had not encountered
plastic make-up material and face-plates, but his own face! He
stared down at his fingers. Finger tips were stained with black
ink. His disguise had been penetrated, and, for the first time in
his dual career of crime fighting and law evasion, his fingerprints
had been recorded. For the first time, the hideous phantom of
failure danced mocking before his eyes. He had at last met his
equal—the hidden leader of the corpse-legion whose butchery
terrorized the city.

The one light in the room faded out, and was supplanted by the
glow of the television screen. A powerful radio sound circuit moved
into operation. Across the television screen, a black shadow moved.
It was a shapeless shadow that might well have concealed a man. "X"
watched it closely.

"We meet, Secret Agent 'X'," a voice boomed from the radio.
"Rest assured that though my curiosity has led me to look upon your
true face, no other eyes than mine have seen you as you really are.
You would have been a worthy opponent hadn't the green eyes of the
Leopard Lady enticed you into my trap. I have no particular desire
to reveal your identity to the world unless it becomes necessary to
do so.

"My plan, I think, will interest you. You may have guessed of
the hate I bear all who support the law. And inasmuch as you are
the paragon of law enforcement, my hatred has centered upon you. I
have conceived a delightful means of tormenting you before you
die—a means which is related to some extent to what those
ancient monks of the Spanish Inquisition called 'Torture by Hope.'
Observe the screen of the television unit carefully, Agent 'X', and
you will understand perfectly."

The shadow was gone. Again a switch popped. Shadow objects on
the television screen were brought into focus. Agent "X" saw an
interior view of a house that was well known to him. It was the
exotically furnished home of Felice Vincart, the Leopard Lady.
Between two twisted pillars that might have been brought from
Granada's Alhambra was an iron-barred cage containing two tawny
leopards of unusual size.

The door of the cage was in the form of a circle of metal. It
appeared that the door was made of many pieces of metal mounted and
movable like the iris of a camera. A long pendulumed clock was
mounted above it.

AGENT "X" remembered that some strange whim of Felice Vincart
had led her to install an amateur television transmitter in her
home. Now he understood that it was to be put to a terrible
purpose. On a gilt divan, directly in front of the leopard cage,
was the form of a woman. In spite of the small proportions
reproduced on the screen, "X" knew that woman. There was no
mistaking the wealth of golden hair that rippled across the
cushions of the divan. The woman was Betty Dale.

The Agent's heart throbbed in hopeless rebellion against what he
feared he would be forced to witness. The helpless girl writhed
against her bonds. Shudders convulsed her entire body as one of the
leopards flung its tawny strength against the circular door. Then
"X" knew the meaning of torture!

The great clock above the cage had been set in motion. Its long
pendulum ticked out an eternity of minutes; and as each minute
ticked by, the steel, iris-like door opened the merest fraction of
an inch. Eventually, that door would widen to such an extent that
the big cats would break through. Their lean flanks, their gaping,
hungry jaws gave mute promise of what might be expected.

Agent "X" sprang to his feet. The house was silent. There was no
sign of any living thing within the room save the torturous, silent
pantomime of the television screen. "X" leaped to the door. It was
heavy oak three inches thick. "X" looked through the opening,
looked anywhere save at the baleful picture on the screen.

In the hall outside, a powerfully built man lolled in a chair. A
Winchester rifle was slung across his knees. The Agent's fingers
trembled over the lock of the door. He might easily pick it if his
tools had been left him.

He made a hasty inventory of the equipment he carried. His gas
pistol had been removed from his coat as well as the automatic he
had taken from Fassler. But his pocket make-up kit and compact tool
and medical kits had been left him. "Why?" his brain hammered.
Surely the shadowy gang leader was more clever than that. Did the
Unknown imagine that Agent "X" could be confined in such a cell by
even a dozen guards when the person whom he regarded above everyone
else was in danger? Some sixth sense told him that here was a trick
of some sort.

"X" snapped open his make-up kit and removed a small,
cylindrical bottle. Inside of it were two crystal glass capsules
filled with a colorless fluid. From the pocket of his vest, he
pulled out what appeared to be an ordinary fountain pen. Removing
the cap revealed that it was a hollow barrel. "X" took one of the
capsules from the cylindrical bottle and dropped it into the
fountain pen. He inserted one end of the pen between his lips. The
pen had resolved itself into a conveniently small blow gun. He drew
deep lungs full of air, sighted the tube on the lolling figure of
the guard, and blew with all his strength.

The tiny glass capsule pinged against the wall a few inches
above the guard's head, releasing a tiny cloud of fog. The guard
sprang upright. The startled expression on his face was supplanted
by one of inane peacefulness. He collapsed on the floor.

*AUTHOR'S NOTE: In the constant war Agent "X" wages against
crime, he is forced to employ new tricks as often as possible so
that his movements are seldom anticipated by his enemies. He is
constantly on the lookout for new devices to strengthen his
defense. This simple pocket blow gun, with its special missiles
containing a form of his anesthetizing vapor, is one of the
products of his own inventive genius.

The Agent thrust the blowgun back into his pocket, and
immediately went to work on the lock. Tiny, finely tempered tools,
the product of a professional lock-pick, dropped from the Agent's
tool kit. In spite of the panic which possessed him, "X's" hands
were perfectly steady as he guided a gleaming tool into the
tumblers of the lock. There had not been sufficient quantity of his
anesthetizing gas in the tiny capsule to keep the guard unconscious
for long. Eagerness, triumph, and doubt were expressions that
alternately crossed the Agent's almost boyish features.

In another moment, the lock was released. A backward glance at
the television screen showed him that the circular door in the
leopard cage had opened far enough to permit one of the savage
beasts to thrust its drooling muzzle through the opening.

Agent "X" sprang into the hall. Without looking to right or
left, he made for the door beside which the guard had lolled. A
simple skeleton lock yielded to the key which "X" extracted from
the guard's pocket. Then he plunged down the stairs, and into the
dismal street.

He was several miles from the house of the exotic Leopard Lady,
and in such a district, at such a late hour, there wasn't a taxi in
sight. However, parked a short distance from the house from which
he had escaped, was a car. He ran to it, opened the door, and
turned his flashlight on the instrument panel. The key was in the
ignition lock.

Again that strange premonition that this was not a coincidence
passed over Agent "X." It was all too easy—his escape and the
finding of a car that must enable him to reach the Leopard Lady's
house in time. But this was not a time for hesitation. He was
certain of trickery somewhere, but the scene he had witnessed on
the screen of the television set could not have been faked.

IN a moment, he was speeding down the street, steering with one
hand and fumbling with the make-up kit which he had opened on the
seat beside him. He needed no light for the disguise he was about
to assume.

*AUTHOR'S NOTE: The genius of Agent "X" in the matter of
disguise and voice impersonation is well known to the regular
reader of these records. Because he never knows when he will be
called upon to effect a complete change of features in a few
moments time, he has practiced certain stock disguises until he
knows them well enough to permit him to assume them without the aid
of a mirror and in the dark if need be.

Thick layers of plastic volatile material lent a heaviness to
his face. Dark pigments rubbed into his jowls simulated blue-black
beard stubble. Plastic material widened his nose. The dark toupee
which he had used in the character of Peter Krausman had not been
removed by the gang chief. By the time the car nosed into a
suburban residential district, he appeared to be an entirely
different person than the man who had left the dismal back street
fifteen minutes before.

The house that Felice Vincart had inherited from her wealthy
husband was one of somber gray stone approached by a winding drive
of white gravel. Agent "X" parked the car in front of the gate, got
out and crossed the drive to the velvety lawn. There he broke into
a run, eyes strained ahead to catch some sign of life in the great
house. If there were lights inside every curtain had been securely
drawn.

"X" sprang up the steps of the portico. The door was locked, but
it required him only a moment to unlock it with the aid of his
special master keys. He entered the hall, needling the darkness
with his flashlight. Everywhere were furnishings that reflected the
exotic personality of the woman who owned the house. "X" pushed
back a door of carved wood and crossed a sumptuous living room. He
stopped stock-still, listening for the moment to the sound of
bestial claws rasping over some metal surface. He sprang to a great
oak-paneled door and flung it wide.

The pale light from a pierced brass lamp reflected upon a high,
carved ceiling, and the narrow twisted pillars of the Leopard
Lady's drawing room. In a gloomy corner of the room, he saw two
pairs of baleful yellow eyes. "X" rounded the bulky apparatus of
the television transmitting equipment. He inhaled sharply.
Crouching near the golden divan to which Betty Dale was bound, was
the lithe form of a huge leopard. Aside from the switching tip of
its tail, it was entirely motionless.

"X" sprang toward the big cat. He swept up a chair. The beast
turned, and launched itself straight for him. The chair in the
Agent's hands swung up above his head, meeting the hurtling yellow
shadow in the midsection. But the weight of the animal sent "X"
crashing to the floor. With a snarl, the beast's forepaws lashed
out. Powerful claws ripped splinters of wood from the chair.

Every muscle in the Agent's powerful body was brought into play
in a mighty heave that hurled the leopard to one side. "X" sprang
to his feet. His eyes darted toward the cage. The second leopard
crouched in the circular door of the enclosure. "X's" lips
puckered. He uttered a piercing whistle. The effect of that whistle
on the beasts was remarkable. The muscles of the leopard in the
cage relaxed. The other beast slunk into a corner, and sat down
upon its haunches.

*AUTHORS NOTE: One of the mysteries revolving about Secret Agent
"X" is his peculiar influence over animals. This weird whistle
which he utters upon occasion seems to have a fascination for all
beasts who hear it. The magnetism of his glance probably also plays
a part in this strange power he has over animals.

Agent "X" sprang to the couch to which Betty Dale was tied.
Apparently, she was unharmed, though unconscious. The agony of
waiting for that circular door to open and free the hungry beasts
had been too much for her. She had fainted. "X" took out his pocket
knife and cut the cords that bound her. He was in the act of taking
his medical kit from his pocket in order to give Betty suitable
stimulant, when a soft, husky laugh sounded behind him. "X"
pivoted.

Felice Vincart stood not ten feet away. A dark traveling suit
hugged her slender form. Her peculiar greenish eyes were smoky
behind the wisp of veil on her smart hat. Her slender, gloved hand
held a small automatic.

"I advise you," she said softly, "to put up your hands. I am
rather a good shot. I would not hesitate to shoot an ordinary house
breaker."

Agent "X" regarded the woman calmly. He closed his medical kit,
and returned it to his pocket, but not until he had craftily palmed
a small glass capsule in his right hand.

THE Leopard Lady shrugged. "I am sure I have no way of knowing.
I've been a little out of touch with the East, having just returned
from California half an hour ago."

"X" was certain that she was laughing at him. He leaned slightly
forward, throwing his weight on the balls of his feet. The woman
turned her head slightly and uttered a sharp command in French. "X"
saw the leopard get up from its corner and slink toward the cage.
In another moment it was inside the cage beside its mate.

The Leopard Lady moved toward the couch where Betty Dale lay.
"One of your victims, or a partner in crime?" she asked softly. She
brought her left wrist up ever so slightly. For a moment, her eyes
rested upon her watch. It was a movement that another man might
have missed or misinterpreted. But Agent "X" knew that the Leopard
Lady was expecting some one to come to her assistance. It was, as
he had expected, some sort of a trap into which he had been forced
to walk.

But action was imperative. His legs shot out like two springs,
hurling him toward the woman. She fired instantly, the bullet
jerking at the Agent's coat sleeve. "X's" left hand chopped down to
lock over the woman's gun wrist. With a quick, twisting motion that
brought a wince of pain from Felice Vincart, "X" disarmed her. But
hardly had he obtained the gun before the doors at the opposite
ends of the room opened.

"Reach for the ceiling!" a voice well known to "X" bellowed. He
dropped the gun, raised his hands, and turned, slowly. Through the
door at the rear of the room, came Inspector John Burks followed by
six policemen. "X" looked over his shoulder at the other door,
weighing his chance of escape. But at the other door stood
Commissioner Foster, and his jumpy little friend, Major Derrick.
Behind them was a second group of policemen.

CHAPTER IV — FRAMED

THE red lips of the Leopard Lady curved into a brilliant smile.
"Thank you very much, Commissioner Foster. I was afraid, right
after I called you, that this man would leave before you could
capture him. I decided to risk holding him until you came."

"A nice piece of work, Miss Vincart," commended Foster. "Burks,
search that man. If that tip was on the straight, he's a member of
that gang the papers call the Corpse Legion."

"Why, what do you mean?" demanded the Leopard Lady.

It was Major Derrick's whipping voice that answered her
question. "Just before you called, Commissioner Foster had a tip
that your house was being used as a headquarters for the Corpse
Legion while you were in California. It isn't the first time that
criminals have made use of empty houses."

The Leopard Lady bit her lip. A worried frown crossed her face.
"You don't think that I will be involved in any way in this
business, do you?" she asked appealingly.

"Don't worry, lady, you've done your part in capturing this
bird. We won't bother you any longer than is absolutely necessary,"
said Inspector Burks. He stepped through the ring of detectives
around Secret Agent "X." He regarded the Agent a moment through
half-closed eyes. "Well, sir, either you're Secret Agent 'X' or
some member of his gang!"

He glanced up at "X's" raised right hand; it was tightly closed
over the glass capsule he had taken from the medical kit when the
Leopard Lady had put in her appearance. "Open up that hand, you,"
ordered Burks.

A slow smile crossed "X's" features. "How do you know, if I am
Secret Agent 'X' as you suppose, that my hand does not contain sure
death for you?"

"I'll take that chance," said Burks gruffly. "You're pretty fond
of your own skin."

"X" opened his right hand. It was empty. It had required but the
tiniest gesture for him to drop the little glass capsule into the
sleeve of his upraised arm. It would be instantly available
whenever he wanted it.

Inspector Burks grunted his disappointment, and proceeded to
search each one of the Agent's pockets. In the meantime Foster,
Major Derrick, and the Leopard Lady were busy over Betty Dale.

"She's just fainted, poor girl," declared Foster. "Look at her
wrists. She's been tied. Looks as though the gang had gone in for
kidnapping as well as robbery. I am afraid, Miss Vincart, that your
leopards are not as good watch dogs as you imagined them to
be."

"Ah, no, my leopards are as pet kittens. They would hurt no one.
But are you sure this girl is not associated with your strange
criminal gang?" asked the Leopard Lady.

"Why, this is Betty Dale, a reporter on one of the local
papers," explained Foster. "Her father was on the police force back
in Major Derrick's day—eh, Derrick?"

"Of course, of course," jerked Derrick. "Miss Vincart, if you
have a little brandy in the house, I think we can revive this young
lady in a moment. She will probably be able to tell us enough about
our prisoner to put him behind bars for the rest of his life."

"Certainly. A cellarette over there—"

Major Derrick started for the cellarette the Leopard Lady had
indicated. In doing so, he tripped over something which extended
out from beneath the edge of the couch on which Betty lay.

Inspector Burks quickly went over, demanded:

"What the devil have we here?" He saw that Derrick had tripped
over the end of a small black traveling bag that had seen
considerable wear.

"This anything of yours?" asked Derrick of the Leopard Lady.

Felice Vincart's lips curved into a slight sneer. "Dear me, no.
All of my traveling gear is upstairs waiting for the maid to
unpack."

Burks, Derrick, and Foster knelt beside the black bag and opened
the clasps. The opening of the bag was too much of a surprise for
even Commissioner Foster to retain his usual composure. "Good
Lord!" he gasped. "It's filled with jewels!"

"And—" Derrick said excitedly. "I recognize some of the
pieces. There's the necklace stolen by the corpse-gang from Mr.
Nelson's store. There's not another like it in the world!"

Inspector Burks looked over at Agent "X." He nodded his great
head up and down slowly. "We've made a catch this time!"

A commotion arose at the opposite end of the room. A uniformed
messenger was allowed to pass the police guarding the door.
"Message for Commissioner Foster," the youth announced, extending a
plain white envelope to the commissioner.

"Where from?" demanded Foster as he tore at the envelope.

The messenger shrugged. "Don't know. A man gave it to me at the
telegraph office. He said it was for you. I've hunted for you for
some time; then some one told me at headquarters that I might find
you here."

THOUGH Foster had asked the question, it is doubtful if he
listened to the explanation, so intent was he upon the contents of
the envelope. "Listen to this, Derrick," he said, his voice
trembling slightly with excitement: "'You have a friend in the
enemy camp, Commissioner. I am enclosing the fingerprints of Secret
Agent 'X'. Advise you checking them with any members of the gang
you may capture.'"

Foster held up the slip of paper which had been enclosed with
the message. Even from where he stood, Agent "X" could make out a
complete set of fingerprints recorded on the paper. His heart gave
a leap into his throat. The secret he had sworn would die with
him—the secret of his identity—was about to be
revealed. Even if he should succeed in escaping, the police now had
a permanent record which could send him to the electric chair any
time they laid their hands on him.

*AUTHOR'S NOTE: The Agent's unorthodox methods have been grossly
misinterpreted by the members of the police force. They believe him
to be a dangerous criminal. On several occasions, crimes with which
"X" has had no connection have been laid at his door. The case-book
of Inspector Burks is filled with records of crimes attributed to
Agent "X". It is Burks' belief that Agent "X" will stop at
nothing—even murder—to gain his own ends.

But when another man might have spent precious moments brooding
upon his own doom, Secret Agent "X" went into action. The hand of
his upraised left arm balled and drove down like a mallet in a
brain-rocking blow to the head of the plainclothes man in front of
him. It was a blow that might have felled an ox. The Secret Agent
hurdled the sprawled form, and ran straight at Foster. He knew that
no one would dare fire a shot for fear of hitting the
commissioner.

So sudden were his movements that surprise paralyzed everyone
for a moment. "X," with head lowered, drove straight between Foster
and Major Derrick. His hand shot out. His fingers ripped the
fingerprint record from Foster's hand. It was a single motion in
his mad dash toward the door at the rear of the room.

Ahead of him, police guards massed before the door.

"Stop him!" shouted Burks. "Stop Agent 'X'!"

But even as Burks shouted, "X's" right arm dropped and rose
again. That motion had sent the little glass capsule he had
secreted down into the palm of his hand. As he ran, he threw it
with all his strength at the group of police massed against the
door. At the same instant, he drew a deep breath and dived into the
center of the police in the doorway. They fell like cardboard
soldiers before his furious onslaught. The glass capsule he had
broken in their midst contained sufficient anesthetizing gas to
send them all into temporary oblivion.

"X" TORE away from enfeebled hands, hurdled recumbent bodies
that cluttered the floor, broke through the door, closed and locked
it behind him. As heavy shoulders battered at the locked door,
threatening to burst its hinges, Agent "X" sprang up the flight of
broad stairs that extended before him. At the top of the stairs, he
turned into the first room he came to. It was a large bathroom. He
leaped to the window. But a glance out the window showed him that
it offered no avenue of escape. It would have been a twenty foot
drop, and already the shadowy forms of the police were moving
across the lawn, surrounding the house.

"X" could hear the sound of feet hurrying up the stairs. Without
any arms other than his wits and his fists, he would probably be
completely at their mercy. He turned around, opened a small door
which he supposed to be a closet of some sort. His heart gave a
bound; for the door opened on the dark, narrow shaft of a laundry
chute.

Without a moment's hesitation, he threw a leg over the frame of
the small door, arched his back so as to wedge himself in place,
and pulled the door shut behind him. Thrusting his elbows against
the walls of the chute in order to break the speed of his descent,
he began sliding down the chute.

A second later, he had dropped into a laundry room in the
basement. Only a little gray light passed through the basement
windows, but after the tomblike darkness of the clothes chute, this
light was sufficient for him to see his way about. He went from the
laundry into the furnace room in search of a way out.

In the heels of his shoes were secret compartments where he
carried materials which had often aided him in getting out of tight
spots. He would probably have to employ the tube of make-up
material which one of his heels contained, in order to affect a
disguise that would enable him to get out of the house.

But his first task was to destroy the record of his fingerprints
which he had snatched from Foster. Light from a basement window
pointed out a monstrous furnace which heated the house. It was far
too late in the spring for him to hope that there would be a fire
inside the furnace. But near at hand, he found a small glass
containing matches. He opened the glass jar, took out a match, and
scuffed it against the floor.

It was only after he had crushed the charred scrap of paper
beneath his heel that his old self-confidence returned to him. Now,
with a little good fortune, the great work which he had undertaken
could go on.

As he turned from the little pile of black paper ash which had
once marked him for certain doom, he bumped directly against the
muzzle of an automatic pistol. The brilliant beam of a flashlight
burned into his eyes, blinding him.

"Got you this time, Secret Agent 'X'."

Instantly, "X" recognized that voice. It was the voice of one of
Burks best men, Detective Keegan.

*AUTHOR'S NOTE: It will be remembered that Agent "X" met Keegan
in his long battle against a master extortionist who threatened his
victims with an insidious chemical weapon known as "The Amber
Death." The instance of this meeting was recorded in the novel
entitled "The Golden Ghoul."

"And I'm not taking any chances, either!" The detective's
flashlight described a brilliant arc above the Agent's head and
descended in a blow to "X's" temple. Agent "X" dropped to the
basement floor, and lay still.

A few minutes later, Detective Keegan, hat mashed down over his
head, triumphantly entered the presence of Inspector John Burks who
was bellowing orders to his men. Betty Dale, in the meantime, had
recovered under the apparently kindly ministrations of Felice
Vincart.

"Find anything in the basement, Keegan?" demanded Burks.

Keegan coolly nodded as he shook a cigarette from a battered
pack. "Secret Agent 'X'," he replied between puffs of smoke.

"Agent 'X'!" Burks sprang across the room, and clamped both
hands down on Keegan's shoulders. "You found him, and let him slip
through your fingers without giving us a signal? By heaven, you'll
lose your badge for this!"

Keegan spread his right hand, palm down. "Easy, sir. I've got
your Agent 'X' all tied up with sash cord. I brained him with my
flash. He'll keep for weeks."

Had Burks been watching Betty Dale, he would have seen her
cheeks grow deathly pale.

Burks' eyes seemed to pop from their sockets. "Foster!" he
cried. "We—we've—he's got Secret Agent 'X'!" Burks
thundered through the room and out into the kitchen. He plunged
down the basement steps, closely followed by Foster, Major Derrick,
and several men of the force.

In the furnace room, Burks knelt before a recumbent figure. The
man was securely tied with a soot-soiled rope. Burks turned him
over. It was indeed the heavy-faced man whom Burks had declared to
be Secret Agent "X."

"So that's the devil!" exclaimed Derrick. "Got him at last. No
more police massacres, Foster. This man ought to be lynched!"

Burks was staring down into the face of the unconscious man.
"You got to hand it to him," he muttered. "You wouldn't know that
face he's wearing from real flesh and blood! But there's a way of
finding out what's underneath."

The inspector dug his fingernails deep into the plastic material
that enabled "X" to adopt any feature he chose. His hands trembled
with suppressed excitement. Time after time, this mystery man had
defeated Burks. He could scarcely believe that at last he was about
to look upon the true features of his old enemy.

"Keegan shall have a promotion for this!" declared Foster.

Burks said enthusiastically: "Keegan's good, but I don't
see—" His sentence wandered off into a whisper. His hands
dropped limply to his sides. Foster and Derrick looked at each
other and then down at Burks. Words failed the inspector.
Unconsciously, he molded bits of plastic make-up material between
his fingers, and stared down at the face of the man on the floor.
For the man who had been so completely knocked out, the man who had
been so securely tied, was none other than Detective Keegan
himself.

CHAPTER V — THE DUMMY

THE actions of Secret Agent "X" from the moment that Keegan had
swung his flashlight in an effort to knock him out, were as simple
as they were surprising. Keegan was a powerful man, and perfectly
fit. But he had acted hastily. In almost complete darkness, it is
difficult to strike a man in a vulnerable spot at the first blow.
The detective's flashlight, aimed at the Agent's temple, had grazed
"X's" ear and landed squarely on his right shoulder.

"X" had collapsed on the floor to lie perfectly still. The
moment that Keegan had pocketed his gun and started to kneel at his
captive's side, "X" had thrown up both legs to lock in a powerful
scissors grip around Keegan's knees. The detective had fallen full
length upon "X" and had taken a short, chopping left on the
head.

The struggle had not lasted a minute. Keegan was no match for
the fighting skill of Agent "X." Having tied the detective and
appropriated his flashlight, "X" proceeded to remove make-up
material from his own face. Then, using make-up material which he
obtained from one of the secret compartments in his heel, "X"
worked over his own face to resemble the contours of Keegan's face.
Master of his art that he was, "X" was able to duplicate Keegan's
features from memory. A change of clothing, and he was ready to
face Inspector Burks.

No sooner had Burks and his followers trooped into the basement,
than Agent "X" sauntered out of the house, and regained the car he
had borrowed.

The sky was graying in the east by the time "X" arrived at one
of his hideouts miles away from the Leopard Lady's house. He knew
that Betty Dale was in good hands. Burks, who had known the girl
since childhood, would not have permitted any harm to come to her.
But "X" knew that more than ever before, the police would hamper
his efforts in the cause of justice.

The Agent's first act on reaching his hideout—a brownstone
dwelling in the west end of town—was to enter a closet and
open what appeared to be a large wardrobe trunk. Inside, was
concealed a small short-wave radio transmitter and receiver. By
means of a telegraph key, he tapped out a code message which was
transmitted on a clear wave channel. He was anxious to get in touch
with Harvey Bates, director of the Agent's vast secret
organization.

*AUTHOR'S NOTE: Considerably larger than the Hobart Agency is
the group of men and women selected by "X" to comprise his staff of
intelligence workers, and directed by Harvey Bates. Unlike the
Hobart group, the world does not know of the existence of the Bates
organization. Bates recognizes his chief only by a certain voice
the Agent uses when communicating by telephone or radiophone, or by
one of the codes which he employs in telegraphic transmission. Both
of the organizations are paid for their services from an almost
inexhaustible fund contributed for the Agent's use by certain
public-spirited men.

Almost immediately, the reply came through—a series of
Morse dots and dashes. Again, the Agent's key clicked, this time to
inform Bates to use a certain code, known only to Bates and
himself. Then he tapped out a question which when decoded read:
"Are camera planes ready for immediate use?"

Bates replied that two of the Agent's aerial eyes were ready to
take off at a moment's notice.

"Then," the Agent tapped out, "put them in the air at once.
Patrol city. Watch for Corpse-Legion's mystery car. In case of
another police massacre, trace car, and deliver record of route
taken."

*AUTHOR'S NOTE: It will be remembered the Agent "X" used this
aerial device first in that adventure which was recorded in the
novel entitled, "The Murder Monster." It consists of an automatic
moving picture camera mounted beneath the cockpit of an airplane.
This camera is controlled by the pilot of the ship. What he sees
through a glassed-in opening in the floor of the plane, is recorded
on the film of the camera. This device is one of the Agent's most
valuable accessories inasmuch as once sighted by the pilot of the
plane, the camera produces a permanent record of the action of the
crime, and the route taken by the escaping criminals.

Having completed these instructions, "X" leisurely removed his
make-up which had aided him in the impersonation of Detective
Keegan. Seated before a triple mirror, his skillful fingers worked
miracles. Transparent adhesive twisted his lips into an ugly snarl.
Plastic material helped him achieve a hideous, flattened nose that
was almost apelike. A clever toupee of coarse, black hair, a suit
of flagrant checks, and a tie that flamed completed his
disguise.

Staring for a moment at his reflection in the mirror, he
believed that his new face was the result of genuine inspiration.
He looked the sort of a man a policeman would arrest on sight. He
could think of no face which appeared to need the aid of a plastic
surgeon any more than the one reflected in the mirror.

It was his intention to visit the home and office of Jules
Planchard. Previous investigation had led "X" to believe that the
greedy doctor was not above using his skill to change the features
of fugitives from justice. So far, Planchard had slipped beneath
the fingers of the law; but "X's" great group of secret
investigators had ferreted out Planchard's true character. Then the
incident of the jade bracelet—first purchased by Planchard
and next seen on the wrist of Felice Vincart—made "X" doubly
suspicious.

"X" BELIEVED that there were but two possible explanations for
the existence of the Corpse-Legion. Either some scientist had
discovered a means of reviving the dead, or there was trickery
somewhere—trickery of a sort that "X" knew better than any
other man. Such trickery—the alteration of the real features
of a man's face—could be greatly simplified if the skilled
Jules Planchard served the unknown leader of the gang.

It was nine o'clock in the morning when "X," beneath his
masterly disguise, pressed the doorbell of Jules Planchard's great
square, brick house. His ring was answered by a servant whose eyes
were still puffy with sleep. Dr. Planchard, the servant informed
"X," was still at breakfast.

"Don't let that bother you, buddy," the Agent growled. He wedged
the toe of his left shoe in between door and sill. "The doc's
expectin' me. I'm a customer, get it?" He winked knowingly.

The servant would have hesitated to admit "X" had not the latter
suddenly thrown his full weight against the door. The servant fell
backwards. "X" strode into the hall, slamming and locking the door
behind him.

The servant cowered against the wall, staring at the
leather-covered blackjack that "X" swung suggestively.

"X" turned. Dr. Jules Planchard, swathed in a quilted silk
dressing gown, stood in the door at the end of the hall. His long
goatee dangled beneath his pendulous lower lip. He examined "X"
with keen, black-bean eyes. His breakfast napkin was in his right
hand.

"This bird thought he was keeping' me out, doc," replied "X"
familiarly. He thrust thumbs into the arm holes of his checkered
vest, tilted his hat on the back of his head, and glowered at the
doctor. "My name's Vance, 'Dummy' Vance. Maybe me name hasn't got
this far east, but out in Frisco I'm called 'Dummy'—cause
that's the one thing I'm not. You look like a smart man yourself,
doc."

Planchard bowed slightly in acknowledgment of what was intended
to be a compliment.

"Smart enough," the Agent continued, "not to kick up too much
fuss when a guy wants his map dredged a bit. This beezer,
now—" the Agent fingered his flattened nose—"without
that, the bulls wouldn't know me from a wooden Indian. You getting'
the idea?"

Planchard motioned to the door through which he had just passed.
"Come in here, Mr. Vance. We can talk in privacy."

"X" followed Planchard through the door into a small study.
Planchard motioned to a chair across from a small coffee table
laden with the doctor's breakfast. "X" dropped into a chair, picked
up a couple of slices of toast, and munched thoughtfully for a
moment. His eyes narrowed.

"That gun you're hidin' under your napkin, doc—I spotted
it first time I lamped you. Kind of spoils my digestion to have to
eat starin' at a gun."

Planchard coughed nervously, dropped his napkin, and put a small
automatic into his pocket. "One never knows," he mumbled.

"Sure. And that's why you got to fix me up so I look like a
Sunday-school teacher. I worked myself over from the west coast, if
you get what I mean. Maybe I left a record here and there, and
maybe I didn't. How'd you like to earn a grand fixin' my pan?"

Planchard smiled slightly. "Really, Mr. Vance, you and I don't
speak the same language!"

"X" scowled. "You mean you come higher than that?"

PLANCHARD nodded. "For a man of your reputation, I don't think
five thousand would be too much to ask."

"X" tossed a crumb of toast into his mouth and chewed it. "Okeh,
make it five grand. But it's got to be a swell job."

"Just step into my operating room," Planchard suggested, "and
we'll see what can be done. Of course," he added, as he led toward
the door, "I'll have to have part of my fee in advance."

"Fair enough," the Agent said, handing him a thousand dollars.
He followed the doctor through a door, down a short hall, and into
a small operating room that was complete in every detail. The
doctor went over to a white-enameled locker where he traded
dressing gown for a short white coat.

"X" removed his hat, and slung one leg over the white operating
table. The doctor went over to the wall and switched on a powerful
compound lamp suspended above the Agent's head. He walked to a
cabinet, picked up a gleaming scalpel, and approached "X."

"Let's see—" Planchard tilted the Agent's head, and stared
long and searchingly into his face. For a moment, "X" wondered if
even his clever disguise could withstand such a scrutiny. He eyed
the scalpel uneasily.

"Don't you give an anesthetic or nothin'?" he asked.

Planchard laughed. "Oh, I can't operate today. I'm merely
studying the lines of your face. Your nose is really horrible, if
you don't mind my saying so. I can make an incision here—"
the scalpel tapped the bridge of the Agent's nose. "Possibly one
here." Suddenly, Planchard brought his scalpel down beneath "X's"
chin. Its gleaming point pressed against "X's" throat. "Now,
blundering spy, tell me why you have come here!" Planchard whipped
out. "One of your gang has tricked me already. What did you do with
my formula?" His left arm swung around behind "X," and gripped his
shoulders tightly. "Tell me, I say, or I operate right now—on
your jugular!"

"Wh—what formuler?" the Agent stuttered. "Don't
getcha."

"You know well enough! No man of your sort comes here without a
letter of introduction from some one whom I can trust. You must be
a spy. Tell me what you have done with my formula! Doubtless you
have come to get further information about it. If that formula
becomes public property, I shall be ruined. Tell me, or by heaven,
I will kill you!"

Agent "X's" right leg kicked around behind Planchard, and stuck
him behind the knees. At the same time, he sent a pounding blow to
the doctor's midsection, and snatched at the hand that held the
scalpel against his throat.

Planchard doubled beneath the force of the blow, staggered back,
and tripped over the Agent's right leg. "X" sprang toward the
doctor. He yanked his gas-gun from his pocket. Rage blinded the
surgeon. He sprang up from the floor, and flung himself upon "X."
His fingers wilted on the Agent's throat as he received a full
charge from the gas gun straight in the face. "X" picked the man
up, and stretched him out on his own operating table.

A soft, purring laugh sounded behind "X." He swung around. A
revolver shot cracked out. The Leopard Lady stood in the door of
the operating room, a smoking revolver in her hand. Both of the
Agent's hands were clasped tightly over his heart. Thick, red fluid
crawled from between his fingers. He staggered toward the Leopard
Lady. His knees melted under him. He fell full length on the
floor.

A cruel smile spread slowly across the face of the Leopard Lady.
Then her green eyes darted at the operating table where Dr.
Planchard lay. With quick, graceful steps, she crossed the room,
and bent over the doctor. She held his wrist a moment, feeling his
pulse. Then her red lips puckered and she uttered a sharp
whistle.

From beneath veiled eyelids, Agent "X" watched what went on in
the room. He had sustained no more painful injury than if he had
been struck a hard blow over the heart with a man's fist. His
bullet proof vest had stopped the Leopard Lady's shot. However,
Secret Agent "X" often had occasion to "play 'possum." Beneath his
clothing, he frequently wore a small bladder containing a quantity
of red dye which closely resembled human blood.

*AUTHOR'S NOTE: This dye which simulated blood, it will be
remembered, was used by the Agent when he was engaged in conflict
with the strange criminal society known as The Seven Silent Men. On
that occasion, the dye was used when he was forced to pretend to
murder Betty Dale. The incident was recorded in the story entitled,
"The Corpse Cavalcade."

By pinching this bladder between his hands, he had opened a
valve that allowed some of the substance to flow out between his
fingers. Coupled with his natural dramatic talents, this trick
enabled him to feign death without difficulty.

NO sooner had the Leopard Lady uttered her whistle than two men
stepped into the room. Again, "X" met faces out of the past. One of
the men had the face of Willy Hymes; and "X" had last seen Willy
Hymes on a slab in the morgue. He had been killed in a gun brawl.
Yet here, to all appearances, was Hymes in the flesh. More than
ever, "X" was convinced that Planchard had played some part in this
hideous hoax. Planchard had lost a formula. "X" had a notion as to
the use that formula had been put, and also a vague idea as to the
identity of the criminal genius behind the gang.

"We will take Dr. Planchard to the chief," declared the Leopard
Lady. "He is becoming annoying, and I believe he has begun to
suspect me. Carry him to the car at once."

Without reply, rat-faced Willy Hymes and his equally
despicable-looking companion lifted the doctor, and carried him
from the room. The Leopard Lady saw them out, then crossed to where
"X" lay. She gave him a sharp kick between the shoulders with her
tiny, high-heeled slipper. Though that kick had struck a
particularly sensitive nerve center, "X" did not move. The Leopard
Lady laughed softly, and left the room.

"X" lay still, scarcely breathing until he heard the tap of her
shoes far down the hall. Then he got up, crossed to the door. The
Leopard Lady and her companions had left the house by means of the
back door. "X" entered Planchard's office. On the floor was the
surgeon's servant. There was a red lump at the back of the man's
ear. Evidently, this was the work of the Leopard Lady's two
bodyguards.

Having made sure that the servant would be unconscious for some
time, "X" picked up the doctor's telephone and called a number
which had never appeared in any telephone directory. Speaking into
the transmitter, the harsh voice which had identified him as
"Dummy" Vance slipped down into a smooth, deep pitch. It was the
one voice by which Harvey Bates recognized his chief.

"Bates," ordered the Agent, "have the house of Felice Vincart
watched. Try to shadow anyone who enters or leaves."

"Right, Chief," replied Bates. "Have two men in that district
now. They can reach the Vincart house in a few minutes. Just a
moment, please. Have further information."

The Agent waited until he again heard Bates voice. He could hear
the rustle of his henchman's report sheets.

"Sleepy Meguire," Bates announced, "former public enemy who was
incarcerated in the state penitentiary, has been granted special
parole. This information has not been made public. Our agents
inform us that Meguire has been out of prison nearly a week. He
convinced authorities that, given a month of freedom, he could lay
hands on the man responsible for the police massacres. Meguire's
brother is being held in prison as hostage.

"Half an hour ago, another robbery and police killing took
place—the former at the Graystone National Bank and the
latter three blocks west. Our own agents positively identified a
man seen loitering near the bank a few minutes before the robbery
as Meguire. He is living in the Armedale Apartments under the name
of Randolph Schnell."

"Krausman was seen to enter his own apartment early this
morning," replied Bates. "All of our efforts to locate the gang's
mystery car from the air were failures. Pilots report visibility
poor."

"Keep trying," urged "X" cheerfully. He hung up the
receiver.

CHAPTER VI — KRAUSMAN'S SECRET

HAD Mr. Randolph Schnell's neighbors in the Armedale Apartments
known anything about Mr. Schnell beside the fact that he drove a
Lincoln and paid four hundred dollars a month rent, they would have
probably packed their belongings and vacated immediately. "Sleepy"
Meguire, otherwise known as Randolph Schnell, did not look like an
ex-convict. With his suits, shoes, ties, and socks all of the
softest shades of brown, Mr. Schnell looked the gentleman—or
at least a gentleman's gentleman.

He was in the act of distractedly accepting an invitation to
bridge when the door of his apartment opened, and he was confronted
with a surly-faced, tow-headed youth whose clothes were shiny and
who obviously didn't care. Half an hour before, another make-up
miracle had gone on before the triple mirror of Secret Agent "X."
And when "X" had left his hideout he had stepped directly into the
character of "Butch" Bently, former torpedo in Meguire's group of
criminals.

Mr. Meguire registered alarm. The sudden appearance of this man
placed Meguire in a precarious spot; for it was well known that
Bently was scheduled to walk through Sing Sing's little green door,
and be carried back.

Meguire dropped his French type telephone, sprang to his feet,
and got behind his chair. "Get out of here!" he snarled.

The tow-headed young man with the mauler's face closed the door
behind him, and walked over to replace the phone that Meguire had
carelessly dropped.

"A dame pulled that on me once," explained Bently in a voice
that was hardly more than a squeak. "All she and me had to say got
out over the telephone wire. Wasn't long before I had to leave town
and rest up."

"How—how'd you get out of stir?" asked Meguire
huskily.

"Walked out," explained Agent "X" in the voice of "Butch"
Bently. "Them screws is all dumb. And 'memberin' how you and me
used to be pals, I thought I'd come here."

"What do you want? Money?"

Eagerly, the magnificent Meguire reached for his check book.

"Nope," the Agent declined. "Just some info. I know you didn't
get paroled just to go to bridge parties. And havin' measured your
streak of yellow, I know you're not out to get this guy called 'X'
who's supposed to be runnin' this gang that's tearin' the town
apart. You'd light out if you thought you might accidentally bump
into him."

Meguire's heavy eyelids drooped. He licked fat lips that had
suddenly gone dry. "Well, to tell you the truth, I had a little
business I had to take care of. It was a little awkward in stir
trying to transact business."

"X" nodded. "Now, let's have all the truth. What kind of hot
stuff are you tryin' to handle now?"

"Just a few jewels, and a carload of silk we picked up before
Christmas," explained Meguire. "I'm willing to give you your split.
Remember—" as "X" came a step nearer—"I offered to
split before you asked me."

"X" shook his head in mute negation. His eyes never left
Meguire's perpetually tired face. Suddenly, Meguire's hand struck
at his coat pocket. He drew an automatic. "You get out of here!" he
growled.

"X" smiled. "Still packin' them—eh? Well, I'd as soon be
plugged by you as be fried in the chair. I'd know you'd follow me
straight to hell when they found out you did it. Besides, even with
a slug in me, I could choke you just like this!"

"X" sprang like a cat. His long fingers were wide spread. Panic
gripped Meguire. The gun fell from his nerveless fingers. "X"
kicked it to one side. His arms dropped. The ugly mouth that he had
adopted, sneered. "Still yellow. Now you speak up before I tear you
apart!"

MEGUIRE raked his perspiring face with a trembling hand. "You
ask me anything. I'll tell you anything I know. But you gotta get
out."

"Okeh." The Agent scuffed a match on his thumb nail, and lighted
a cigarette. "Who fences that stuff for you?"

"In about fifteen minutes. He's coming here. I tried to meet him
by appointment in front of a bank a while ago, but he didn't show
up. But he's coming here now, and you've got to get out!"

"X" pulled on his cigarette and held it almost beneath Meguire's
nose. In another moment, there was a faint pop. The cigarette in
the Agent's fingers disintegrated. A cloud of gray vapor swirled
about Meguire's head. "X," holding his breath, received none of the
small charge of anesthetizing gas which the cigarette contained.
Meguire sagged forward. His eyes were no longer sleepy. They were
wide with fright.

"Who—who are you?" he stuttered.

"X" chuckled. "If you knew, you'd die of fright."

But it was doubtful if Meguire heard "X's" scoffing remark. The
anesthetizing gas was already dragging him down. "X" supported the
man, carried him across the room, and dumped him into a closet. He
closed the door, and entered Meguire's bed room.

One of Secret Agent "X's" most remarkable traits is his memory.
Once he has mastered a disguise, he requires no photographs to
recreate it. Seated before a mirror, "X" unfolded his compact
make-up kit. He spread pigment and plastic make-up material before
him. Then he took out a black toupee. A few minutes of careful
work, and he was once again Peter Krausman, wealthy jeweler and
receiver of stolen goods.

He was in the act of putting the finishing touches on his
makeup, when the front door buzzer sounded. Going out into the
hall, "X" spoke into the speaking-tube, imitating the voice of
"Sleepy" Meguire to perfection. The real Krausman announced
himself, and "X" told him to come up at once.

When Krausman knocked at the door of the apartment, "X" opened
quickly, swinging with the panel so that Krausman was inside the
room before he had time to see the Agent.

The dusky skin of Peter Krausman paled. For a moment, he could
do nothing but stare at this exact counterpart of himself. With a
movement that seemed no more than a gesture, "X" drew his gas
pistol.

Slowly, the color returned to Krausman's face. "So," he said,
"it is true what they say of you—that you can assume any
features you choose and impersonate anybody. You are Secret Agent
'X'."

Krausman frowned. "I do not understand. I was forced to fly to
Chicago—"

"To make room for me in your jewelry store," the Agent
interrupted. "The game's up, Krausman. When the man who looked like
Scar Fassler chose such a convenient means of getting out of your
store when he was cornered, I knew that Fassler had been there
frequently. Why? Because you associate with Fassler and the rest of
the murdering gang that has terrorized the city. You were forced to
fly to Chicago, because your chief ordered it. He knew that, since
I had been tipped off to the robbery, I would be there. He was
hoping that I would choose to appear as Peter Krausman. Your
leaving town when you did, made the adoption of your character very
easy for me. In that manner, I was marked by your chief."

KRAUSMAN'S right hand shot toward his coat pocket. "X's" gas gun
hissed. For a moment, Krausman's gypsy-like face was clouded with
vapor. His dark eyes flickered. He would have fallen to the floor
had not the Agent caught him and let him down easily. The threat to
search Krausman had brought terror to the jeweler. Evidently, he
had something of vital importance concealed on his person. "X's"
heart beat high with hope as he knelt beside Krausman. At last he
could hope for some key to the identity of the hidden creature who
directed the corpse gang.

In another moment, "X" had emptied the jeweler's pockets. Keys,
handkerchief, change wallet, and watch—all of these "X"
transferred to his own pockets. It was only after searching
Krausman's vest that he came upon something that he thought might
be important. It was a neatly folded piece of ivory-finished note
paper. A delicate feminine hand had penned this little memo:

"Be at my tailor's at 10 P.M."

The words, "my tailor's" implied that the writer of the note was
a man—supposedly Krausman. Yet there could be no doubt that a
woman had written it. That, coupled with the fact that the
appointment was at such a strange hour, made "X" suspicious. Then
too, the paper was not the sort a man would pick up in order to
make some brief notation. And it had been exactly folded to fit a
small envelope. "X" was certain that here was a message that, when
correctly interpreted, would reveal the information which Krausman
would have risked his life to guard. Perhaps the note had been a
summons to a gang meeting. Perhaps it had been written by the
green-eyed Leopard Lady.

Because he had long since learned that the correct answer to the
most complete riddle was often the simplest one, "X" turned back
Krausman's coat. The suit had been tailor made, but there was no
identifying mark on the lining.

Agent "X" sighed. There was nothing to do but make a trip to
Krausman's office. There, he hoped to find the information he was
seeking.

He removed his leather covered medical kit, took out a
hypodermic needle, and deftly filled it with a drug of his own
concoction. He injected sufficient amounts in both Krausman and
Meguire to keep them both unconscious for several hours. After
putting the men in separate rooms, he left the apartment. He nodded
at the doorman.

*AUTHOR'S NOTE: This drug employed by "X" has two remarkable
properties. It is particularly speedy in its action; and, unlike
other drugs, it leaves no bad after-effects. It is one of his most
valued accessories.

The doorman smiled. "Your car is at the curb, sir. When you went
upstairs a moment ago, you said you would only be a moment."

"To be sure," the Agent pressed a dollar bill into the doorman's
hand, and walked slowly toward a green sedan which the doorman had
indicated. A moment of experimentation revealed the key which
unlocked Krausman's car. Then "X" was heading downtown in the
direction of Krausman's store.

PARKING the green sedan in a nearby garage, "X" walked the
remaining block to the store. On the way, he was accosted by a
ragged little newshawk. "Here's your paper, Mr. Krausman." The boy
thrust the sheet beneath the Agent's nose. Evidently, it was
Krausman's custom to patronize the boy. "X" gave the lad a quarter,
tucked the paper under his arm, and continued on his way.

Entering the store by the front door, "X" spoke to the clerks
and hurried to Krausman's office at the rear. Workmen had already
replaced the glass in the office door, and "X" could be certain of
his privacy. Then he began a diligent search through all of
Krausman's records. Krausman, the fence, evidently kept his records
separate from those of Krausman, the jeweler. At any rate, Agent
"X" could find nothing that would incriminate the man whose
identity he had adopted. Going through a sheaf of canceled checks,
"X" came upon several which had been made out to Otho Berg, Tailor.
"X" looked up Berg's address in the telephone directory, and made a
note of it.

He then opened the newspaper he had purchased, and looked at the
front page. The first item his eyes met was:

CORPSE GANG STRIKES AGAIN

A score of people meet death or serious injury as police squad
car crashes into office building.

The article went on, telling how once again the death-dealing
mystery car with its corpse drivers had prevented the police from
getting to the scene of a bank robbery. Fifty thousand dollars had
found their way into the grasping fingers of the hidden monster in
this latest venture.

According to the paper, an invention of the energetic Major
Derrick had given an impartial and perfect record of the police
butchering. On the major's suggestion, an automatic camera had been
installed in the police car and could be set into operation by
anyone in the car. This camera had taken a picture of the mystery
car and its two occupants at exactly the moment when the driver of
the police car had been killed by machine-gun slugs. The picture
had been enlarged so that the faces of the men in the mystery car
could be plainly seen. Beneath the picture was printed this
question:

ARE EITHER OF THESE MEN THE

NOTORIOUS SECRET AGENT "X"?

This was followed by the announcement made by Commissioner
Foster. Fifty thousand dollars would be paid to anyone who would
deliver Secret Agent "X" dead or alive to the police. The
commissioner went on to say that Agent "X" alone could be
responsible for these crimes. "The man," Foster was quoted as
saying, "is a genius gone berserk. He must be checked at all
costs."

Another boxed-in article dealt with the investigation of the
grave of "Slash" Carmody. It had been discovered that the grave had
been opened shortly after interment. The casket was found empty.
Many were the theories advanced by scientists as to how Carmody
might have been brought back to life—for one of the men in
the black mystery car was certainly "Slash" Carmody.

In the office of Peter Krausman, Agent "X" smiled grimly. He had
considered each of the theories advanced by men of science,
concerning the restoring of life after death. None had guessed the
truth. Perhaps Agent "X" was the only living person who understood
the method by which the Corpse Legion had been created.

CHAPTER VII — ALIAS, THE CORPSE

THE Berg Tailor Shop was hardly more than a hole in the wall, in
a little, run-down side street. It was sandwiched in between an old
residence that had been transformed into a tea-room, and the
smoky-faced limestone front of a bank.

"X" in the disguise of Krausman and driving Krausman's car,
circled the block twice, observing every detail. The little show
window of the tailor shop was brilliantly lighted and displayed the
latest fabrics. The tearoom next door looked innocent enough with
its soft rosy lights passing through cheerful, clean windows. The
bank was as lifeless as the grave; not a light showed. Its windows
were securely barred. For the past year, this bank had been closed.
It was the bank of Mr. Stinehope whom "X" had met the day
before.

"X" decided that if he was to enter the tailor shop, he must do
so from the rear. The front was too brilliantly lighted. He would
attract the attention of the cop on the beat in no time if he
attempted to pick the lock on the front door.

"X" steered the car around the corner and into the alley. Then
he got out, having made certain that no one was watching, and
approached the shop. A light was burning in the rear.

Upon a tailor's bench and beneath a dim light, a man sat with
his legs crossed under him. His back was toward "X" and his head
was bent far over, eyes close to his work. There was nothing
whatever to indicate that the shop was to be the scene of a meeting
of a ruthless criminal organization. And perhaps it was not. It was
possible that "X" had misinterpreted the note he had found in
Krausman's pocket. At any rate, there was no turning back now. "X"
approached the door, and knocked.

From where he stood, "X" watched the shadow of the man on the
tailor's bench unfold and cross the room. In another moment, the
door had opened and a soft, husky voice said, "Come in, Mr.
Krausman, the coat is ready for fitting."

"X" stared into the face of the man he had seen on the bench.
Scarlet lips smiled at him; narrow, acutely slanting brows winked;
eyes of emerald green scintillated in the light of the shop.

"Surprised, Peter?" came the query in the unmistakable voice of
the Leopard Lady. For the person in male attire who had been seated
on the tailor's bench was none other than Felice Vincart. She
closed the door, and bolted it behind "X."

"Now, if you'll just slip off your coat, Peter," she whispered,
"we'll get on with our work."

"X" glanced about the room. There were three other figures in
the shop. In the dim light, they appeared as tailor's dummies so
still did they stand. But their faces were the faces of
corpses-criminals who had met their just deserts years ago. Aware
that the Leopard Lady was watching him closely, "X" crossed the
room, took off his suit coat and tossed it onto a chair. The
Leopard Lady helped him into a half-finished coat of rough
tweed.

"There's work for you to do tonight," said the Leopard Lady
softly. She busied herself with chalk and tapeline. "About fifty
thousand dollars worth of jewels to dispose of. The chief is
getting a little anxious to see them turned into cash. But you'll
have to pay a fair price."

"Haven't I always been fair with the chief?" asked "X" in
Krausman's voice.

THE Leopard Lady nodded. "I was merely warning you. Stand still,
can't you? You don't look like a man who's trying on a new
suit."

"X" laughed uneasily. "You don't expect me to, do you?"

"She does," one of the criminals who posed as a clothing store
dummy said. "She's got ice water in her veins. What's more, she
doesn't give a damn. Just does this for a thrill."

The Leopard Lady uttered her purring laugh. "Don't you get a
kick out of it, too?" she asked of the "dummy."

"X" saw the man tremble slightly. "Not always," he replied. "X"
noticed that the man did not have the peculiar intonation and
pronunciation of a creature of the underworld. His voice definitely
belied his hard-looking face. Perhaps beneath those coarse features
was the face of a man who was considered a distinct asset to
society. Or he might be some white-collar worker whose luck had not
lasted, and who had taken up crime as a means of getting rich
quick.

"The key to the chief's success," explained the Leopard Lady,
"lies in his daring. He planned this meeting here tonight. What
could be more simple? No drawn blinds; no black masks. If the cop
on the beat should pass this alley window at this moment, he would
notice nothing out of the way. Why, I might even ask him in for a
smoke."

"Don't try any tricks like that!" said one of the dummies with a
shudder.

"And now," said the Leopard Lady, as she helped "X" from the
coat, "we'll go into the bank. One of you men stay here. The others
follow Krausman and me."

"X" was given no opportunity to regain his own coat. The Leopard
Lady led them through a door and into a little room that was
without lights or windows. Flashlights, in the hands of the two
criminals who followed them, cut through the gloom and centered
upon a section of the brick wall. One of the men approached the
wall, and tapped out a loose brick. Thrusting his arm into a deep
hole in the wall, the man seemed to grasp some sort of a
handle.

On well-oiled hinges, a section of the wall, big enough to admit
a man, swung outward. Through the opening, "X" saw a wall of metal.
An oblong piece had been rimmed by the cutting flame of an
acetylene torch. At a touch from one of the gang members, the steel
section swung open. Agent "X" was led into the vaults of Mr.
Stinehope's own bank.

What better place could the gang have had for a cache for their
loot? The bank was closed; its vaults were supposedly empty.

The Leopard Lady knelt before a large safety deposit box,
unlocked it, and pulled it open. Inside was a canvas bag. She took
the bag out, loosened the drawstrings, and emptied its glittering
contents on the floor. "X" knelt beside her, picked up a great
handful of rings, bracelets, and necklaces. He let the jewels sift
through his fingers, and tinkle against the floor.

"Well, how much?" demanded the Leopard Lady.

"X" hesitated. Though he knew good gems when he saw them, he had
no idea of the amount of money a fence would be expected to advance
on the lot. "Really," he said, "you can't expect me to make an
offer without a day or so to think it over. I will take these with
me, and let you know later."

The green eyes of the Leopard Lady were fixed on his face. The
narrow brows drew together in a tight frown. "I don't understand,
Peter. You have always set the price, and paid cash immediately.
Why the hesitation this time? You know that the chief never picks
up anything but the very best stuff. Cash is all that he's
interested in. He's always treated you fairly."

"X" tugged at the lobe of his left ear. "What did I pay you for
the last haul? I am afraid I can't do so well. The risk is
tremendous."

One of the criminals laughed. "It must be! And all you've got to
do is dig out the stones, melt the gold, and turn the stuff into
new jewelry for which your customers pay triple the price the chief
asks."

Felice Vincart placed a slender hand on "X's" coat sleeve. "What
did you pay for the last catch, Peter?"

"Twenty thousand, wasn't it?" It was a blind shot. "X" hadn't
the slightest idea what the last haul of gems had been worth.

Suddenly, two automatics flashed into prominence. "X" sprang to
his feet, but his head was wedged between the muzzles of two guns
in the hands of the corpse-faced criminals.

The Leopard Lady's lips twisted into a sneer. "Sometimes you
actually disappoint me, Secret Agent 'X!' Keep the guns on his
head, men. He probably wears a bullet-proof vest. March him back
the same way. The chief will be delighted."

Slowly, the group moved to the back of the vault. "X" knew that
his slightest move would be stark suicide. One of the criminals
stepped through the opening in the wall, pressed a gun to the back
of "X's" head, and ordered him to step backward through the
opening.

"X" had no choice in the matter. In another moment, he was
hurried up the alley, his head still held between two guns. A car
awaited them, and with infinite care "X" was forced into the back
seat. With a gunman on either side, ready and willing to shoot, he
was made to sit stiffly upright. The Leopard Lady slid in under the
wheel.

Suddenly, one of the guns was removed from his temple. "X" half
turned his head, met blinding white light, felt sickening pain, and
lapsed into unconsciousness.

"X" regained his senses in a room that blazed with light. He was
sitting in a large oak chair, hands and arms unfettered. Across the
room from him, a door was partially hidden by a row of six men, all
with the corpse-faces that characterized those associated with the
mob of killers. Each man stood stiffly erect, a rifle in his
hands.

Standing a little to the left of Agent "X", was a shapeless
figure in black. A shroud-like garment covered the creature from
head to foot. Only tiny holes for eyes were visible.

"I've grown tired of this nonsense, Agent 'X'," spoke the somber
figure. "I had hoped to frame you and put you into police custody.
No form of execution can compare with the electric chair.
Unfortunately, inasmuch as I am compelled to change headquarters
frequently, I cannot carry an electric chair with me. I have
decided that you shall be shot as a spy as the clock strikes the
hour of nine.

"Nine? Is it morning, then?" asked "X" quietly.

"Yes," replied the gang leader. "You have been unconscious for a
number of hours due to the blow you received on the head."

"X" GLANCED at his watch. The hands spelled a quarter of nine.
"Just how do you propose to carry your schemes out without me?" he
asked. "If you kill me, you won't have anyone to blame your crimes
on. After challenging the police in my name, you can't very well
kill me. Obviously, I can't be the man behind the gang if I am
dead."

A dull laugh sounded from the shroud. "Fassler, Carmody, and
many of the others were dead to police records; yet when I wanted
them, they appeared to serve me. With you, the same thing can be
accomplished. You have no idea what I did to you with my own hands
when you were first brought into my presence."

"On the contrary, I have a very good idea," replied "X". "It was
all rather simple for a man of your skill."

"Then you will understand that I no longer need you. I am sorry
that our last visit must terminate so abruptly. Breathe deeply,
Agent 'X'. You have now just ten minutes on this earth. A pleasant
thought for you to mull over in that time, is that within a month,
I shall have probably wiped out the entire police force and become
the wealthiest man in the world."

The shrouded figure turned, passed through the line of armed
guards. At the door, it paused, turned, and said:

"It would do you no good to cry for help, Agent 'X'. You are in
a room that is perfectly soundproof."

Again "X" chuckled grimly. "You rather underestimate my
courage."

"Good bye, then." The shrouded figure moved through the door.
The panel closing behind him sounded hollowly throughout the room.
It was like the closing of a coffin.

To all outward appearances, Secret Agent "X" was perfectly cool.
Actually, a righteous hatred consumed him; hatred for the
black-clad butcher. For "X" knew that the eyes visible through the
arch-criminal's black shroud were the eyes of the one man who had
seen "X's" true face. And from what the shrouded one had said, "X"
believed that the killer had obtained a permanent record of the
Agent's features.

"X" stared straight ahead of him. The squadron of killers
opposite him stood like statues, their eyes on the clock above the
Agent's head. These strange faces—corpse-faces out of the
past—were to haunt him for the rest of his days. They were so
cold, so void of every human trait, so filled with an eagerness to
destroy life.

"X" looked at his watch. In five minutes—less than
that—six guns would blast him into eternity. If he chose to
make a break for liberty, the shooting would be less accurate,
certainly more painful, with death approaching more slowly but just
as inevitably.

But the Agent's brain pounded out: "I dare not die!" So much
depended upon his living; and the chances of his living depended
upon only one thing—the gold timepiece in his hand. Three
minutes until the balance of life and death swung one way or
another.

Agent "X" pressed his watch between his palms and unscrewed the
back of the case. Beneath, was a second crystal which one might
have imagined was placed there to keep dirt and water out of the
movement. "X" looked up at the guards. A deceptive smile stole
across his lips. "My watch seems to have stopped. Can any of you
gentlemen tell me the correct time?"

EACH of the corpse-like faces grinned. "You aren't going to
care," said one of the men.

"Oh, yes," the agent contradicted. "I'm going to care a lot. You
see, I'm duty bound to attend a funeral within the next day or
so."

One of the guards guffawed. "You're a cool one! Sure, you have
got a date with the undertaker, haven't you? Well, I don't imagine
there'll be enough of you to bury."

"You misunderstand me," said "X" quietly. "I referred to the
first of a series of funerals—the funeral of your leader. I
rather imagine he'll go down to stir the fires of hell—a sort
of preparation for your descent to the self-same spot."

The agent leaned far forward in the chair. The heavy lips he had
affected in his disguise as Peter Krausman remained fixed in a
smile of contempt. "You see," he whispered, "I'm going to walk out
of here in a few minutes. That's something that I am afraid you
will be unable to do as—"

The first stroke of nine boomed throughout the cell. Agent "X"
stood up, still smiling. Simultaneously, six rifles were raised to
six shoulders. The Agent's right arm swung high up over his head
and then came thrashing down. Across the room, a little gold
missile flashed. A faint pop and broken glass tinkled on the paved
floor. With the agility of an adagio dancer, "X" sprang to the side
of the room.

A sharp cry burst from the lips of one of the guards. Rifles
wheeled. One of them cracked. Agent "X" dropped face down on the
floor, and began rolling toward the door. His breath was locked in
his throat. He dared not breathe; for the back of his watch had
contained enough anesthetizing vapor under high pressure to knock
out every one in the room in a few moments time.

Another wild shot. The guard who had fired stumbled forward on
his knees, then relaxed to the floor. Another sprang to the door
and groped ineffectually at the handle. Springing to his feet, "X"
wiped the man's feeble hand from the knob, gave him a push that
sent him spinning across the room. "X" seized the handle, and
yanked open the door. He closed it behind him, found the key in the
lock, and twisted it.

For only a moment, he leaned against the door, and sobbed a
great lungful of air. He was in the upper hall of a house, the
location of which was unknown to him. Through a smeary window, he
could look down into an unkempt back yard. The sky was like gray
flannel, and the rain fell in a steady drizzle.

At the other end of the hall, "X" saw a narrow stairway leading
down into darkness. He moved toward it on tiptoe; for though he
might have escaped from the window, he was placing other matters
before his own safety. The black-robed butcher was still at
large.

Descending the stairs, "X" came upon a closed door. Peering
through the keyhole, he discovered that the next room was empty as
far as he could see. He cautiously opened the door, and stepped
into a small hall. The sound of a muffled voice coming from behind
the door at his right, arrested him. With infinite caution, he
worked his way over to the door. Leaning against the frame, he
pressed his ear to the panel. He could hear the voice of the
shrouded one quite clearly:

"The first thing to attend to," the shrouded one was saying, "is
to check the cars. Refuel the roadster. I believe the guns are
fully loaded. Felice Vincart has obtained a plan of the bank
building. As you know, the steps leading up to the bank will
effectively conceal your approach. It is an ideal set-up for us.
Have no fear that the police will reach you. They will be unable to
answer their radio call just as on previous occasions.

"From the bank you will go to that place we have decided upon.
It does not pay for us to use the same headquarters for more than
two days at a stretch. Even though Agent 'X' is out of the way,
there is no reason to be careless. Remember, tomorrow, we pull the
trick that will make us rich beyond our wildest dream. And we will
have the police on their knees praying for mercy!"

"I hate the coppers," growled a man.

The chief laughed. "You haven't the conception of the word
'hate'!"

AGENT "X" waited for no more. That another robbery and police
slaughter was being planned was enough to goad him into action. To
warn the police would be useless. Every man on the force had a duty
to perform, even though it meant certain death. They would answer
that radio call, announcing another Corpse-Legion robbery. And they
would be butchered by the guns on the mystery car. Upon the
shoulders of Secret Agent "X" a heavy responsibility rested.

He hurried back into the kitchen of the old house where the
killer had taken up temporary headquarters.

From a window, he determined the location of the garage. It was
attached to the side of the house itself. Opening a door off the
kitchen, he descended a short flight of steps, and entered the
garage. Inside, was a single car—the great, black,
streamlined roadster with its mounted machine guns. This was the
speed-demon which had spelled destruction for so many brave
men.

As he stared over its gleaming length, the agent's breath
caught. For a moment, he stood perfectly rigid. There were two men
in the car. And "X" was totally without weapons. In another moment,
a slow, understanding smile spread over the Agent's face. The man
behind the wheel stared straight ahead. The other crouched low
behind a machine gun. The man behind the gun was "Slash" Carmody
who had been executed a few days before in the electric chair. And
no miracle of modern science had altered that fact. Carmody, though
posed behind the deadly gun, was still a corpse. So was the man
behind the wheel.

"X" had not a moment to lose if he was to carry out the daring
plan he had conceived. To cripple the car, jam its machine gun,
were both impractical ideas. The mystery car, upon which so much
depended, would be given a careful inspection before it started on
its juggernaut journey.

"X" rounded the car until he was face to face with the embalmed
corpse of Carmody. He had already guessed that Carmody's grave had
been robbed by some member of the gang. The fact that the car's
occupants were corpses explained why the police bullets had had no
effect upon them. There were no less than three neat, bloodless
holes drilled in Carmody's forehead.

IN a moment, "X" had opened the car door. The hands of the
corpse were taped to the stock of the machine gun. It took "X" only
a moment to loosen these bonds, and drag the gruesome, stiffened
body from the car.

Looking around for a place to hide the body, he discovered a
small washroom, just off the garage. With his grisly burden, he
entered the washroom. Then he began the most trying disguise of his
career.

From the heels of his shoes, "X" took a small tube of plastic
make-up material. The plastic volatile substance which he used to
change his features was nearly colorless. He would require no
pigment for this impersonation. With a speed that did not sacrifice
care, he removed the make-up that identified him as Peter Krausman
and quickly altered his features to resemble those of the dead
man.

The effect achieved by the pale make-up material was nothing
short of horrible. In five minutes time, "X" transformed his face
from that of a normal, healthy man, into the immobile,
death-sharpened features of a corpse.

Then he had to strip the body, and put on the dead man's suit
and hat. He had only time to lock the washroom, pocket the key, and
take his place in the black roadster before the garage door opened,
and two men entered.

"You got to hand it to the chief," one of the men was saying.
"He sure gets the ideas!"

"I'm breathing again now that Agent 'X' is out of the way," said
the other. "The chief says he always knew he'd get him." The man
was unscrewing the gas tank top in order to inspect the fuel
supply. His companion rounded the car and approached the side where
"X" sat.

"Well damn me if Slash Carmody hasn't come loose!" he exclaimed.
"Somebody removed the tape that held his hands to the gun."

The Agent's heart gave a bound. He had, acting solely from
memory assumed the same position as that of the corpse. His hands
were on the machine gun, but there had been no way to tape them
there.

"Probably," said the other man callously, "the chief had Carmody
out for an airing. Here, Smokey—" he tossed a roll of
friction tape to the man near "X".

Smokey eyed "X" a little fearfully. "X" stared back, dull-eyed,
and unblinking. He knew that if the mobster should touch his flesh
and discover that it was warm and living, his daring scheme would
come to an abrupt termination.

But Smokey was not a man to fondle a corpse. Gingerly, he
pressed the friction tape to the gun and wrapped it securely around
"X's" wrists without touching his flesh. When he had completed the
job, "X" was securely tied to a machine gun that was fully loaded
for its murderous work.

Suddenly, the door from the kitchen opened. On the top of the
little flight of steps stood the great shapeless shadow of the gang
leader himself.

"Agent 'X' has escaped!" he shouted.

"Escaped? You said he was dead!"

"One of his damned tricks!" the shrouded figure growled. "The
duel must begin all over again. But—" he added after a
moment's consideration—"that need not stop us. Nothing can
stop us. You two join the others in the alley. Drive around in
front, and be prepared to leave at once."

The man called Smokey shook his head. "It's a lot of risk to
take. Agent 'X' may have warned the police."

The black-clad butcher laughed harshly. "What good would that
do? The police believe that 'X' is responsible for the police
killings."

"Right, chief! We'll start as soon as I put a little air in this
rear tire."

The black-robed one left the garage to his lieutenants. "X"
heard the rush of air as the roadster's tires were filled. He dared
not move a muscle; for the man called Smokey watched him closely.
Was there a glimmer of suspicion in the cold eyes of the
killer?

Had "X" been given a moment alone, he could have managed to
break away from the bonds that held him to the death car. But no
sooner had Smokey and his companion left the garage than "X" felt
the car in which he was seated tremble slightly. He darted a look
at the corpse at the wheel. Had he been mistaken? Was this stiff,
wooden-faced thing alive after all? But the corpse beside him
remained motionless.

By an unseen hand, the black roadster started. Garage doors
folded back by some concealed mechanism. The destroying black car
rolled smoothly from the garage, down a steep drive, and into the
street directly in front of a blue sedan. Out of the corner of his
eye, "X" saw that the blue sedan was filled with men—men
whose faces were the faces of the dead. Once again, the
Corpse-Legion had been mobilized for another attack against all
that stood for law and order.

"X" FULLY realized the peril of his position. The roadster was
closely followed by the sedan, and the occupants of the latter
never moved their eyes from the car in front of them. "X" hadn't a
chance in the world of freeing himself from the machine gun as long
as those criminals were watching him. They would have shot him down
at the first movement. No, he had impersonated a corpse. He knew
that unless the odds should suddenly shift in his favor he would be
a corpse inside of a few minutes. He was caught between two fires.
The police would unhesitatingly shoot him on sight; the gangmen
following the roadster would shoot him if he made a move.

The mystery car moved smoothly ahead. The steering wheel in the
hands of the corpse remained motionless, though the car negotiated
turns easily enough.

The roadster gained speed. It was heading toward a part of the
city where many factory workers dwelt. No doubt the objective was
some bank where hard working men and women stored the savings of a
lifetime.

Staring straight ahead over the long hood of the car, "X" saw
the rear end of a special police cruiser. Suddenly, the siren of
the police car began to whine. It wheeled to the center of the
street, and fairly leaped ahead. "X" ventured a look behind. The
blue sedan no longer followed. Evidently, it had speeded ahead to
the bank that was to be robbed. The ever-alert police had heard the
alarm and were rushing to the scene of the crime.

But if the police car seemed to leap, the black roadster seemed
to have suddenly begot wings. Its powerful motor abruptly opened
up. The acceleration was so great that "X" felt as though his head
would be snapped from his shoulders. The distance between the black
destroyer and its prey shortened alarmingly.

But Agent "X" was not idle. He knew the hidden hand that guided
the car would open up the machine gun as soon as the roadster
overhauled the police car. He knew, also, that police guns would
send a hail of lead that "X", in his position in the roadster could
not possibly avoid. The powerful muscles of the Agent's arms
swelled until it seemed that his skin must burst. There was a sound
of ripping fabric as he broke through the friction tape which held
him to the gun.

As his hand pulled free, a great shout arose from the police
car. They had sighted the roadster that was over-taking them. One
of the police leaned far out and sent a shot whining above the
Agent's head. There were few people on the street, and the police
would have no reason to hold their fire; they would shoot to
kill.

The Agent's hands worked like lighting, tugging at the clasp
that held the ammunition drum of the machine gun in place. The
clasp yielded. He fastened both hands on the drum, and yanked it
free. He hurled it into the street. At the same time, police
automatics barked. A slug thudded against "X's" bullet-proof vest.
He could not hope to be that fortunate always; one of those hungry
pellets must find his head.

Staring down, he saw the pavement, a speeding ribbon beneath
him. To leap meant—But where was the choice? Without a
moment's hesitation, "X" swung one leg over the door of the
roadster. A bullet sliced across the calf of his leg and spanged
against the armor plate body of the roadster. The Agent's body
rocked. He was thrown completely off balance. His arms shot out in
a mighty heave that threw him off into space. He had a sickening
sensation, as though he were being hurled off of a spinning planet.
He was running before he touched the pavement, but it would have
been impossible for him to time his pace with that of the roaring,
speeding roadster.

His legs doubled under him. He rolled like a ball. A slug
imbedded itself in the asphalt not more than an inch from his head.
His left shoulder encountered the curb with such force that his
entire left arm went suddenly dead.

But he was on his feet, dizzy with the speed of his fall, and
momentarily sick with pain. He ran as he had never run before. It
was something more than the thought of what might happen to him if
he were caught that gave him strength. He was urged on by that
exhilaration that comes to a man after he has attempted the
impossible and succeeded. For the first time, the terror car was
crippled. This time, the killer could not kill.

Swinging in an alley toward a haven of refuge that he knew of,
the depressing thought returned to "X"—while he had saved a
carload of police and possibly thousands of dollars, the master
criminal remained at large. The thought that this monster knew the
Agent's true face hung like a Sword of Damocles above his head.

What would be the shrouded monster's next move?

He asked the question, dreading the answer.

CHAPTER VIII — NIGHT ATTACK

THE following afternoon, the newspapers made gratifying reading
for the thousands who lived in fear of the corpse gang. Crippled by
the loss of its machine-gun ammunition, the mystery car had had to
beat a speedy retreat. The corpse gang, in the act of looting the
bank, heard the whine of the police car siren coming nearer and
nearer. When it was not interrupted by the rattle of machine-gun
fire, the entire crowd took to its heels, narrowly escaping with a
few dollars loot.

The police were at last making definite progress, the papers
said. But Commissioner Foster silently shook his head. As far as he
knew, the failure of the black roadster to wreck the police car was
due to carelessness on the part of some one in the criminal group.
He felt none of the sense of security returning to him. The
Corpse-Legion would strike again and again. He knew of the dogged
determination of Secret Agent "X", whom he still believed backed
the Corpse-Legion.

It was nine o'clock that evening when Commissioner Foster
entered the apartment of Major Derrick, his friend and advisor.
Little did Foster know that one minute later, a shadow slipped
across the front of the apartment building to enter a telephone
booth in a neighboring drug store. Calling a number that was listed
in no telephone book, the man who had shadowed the commissioner
spoke briefly:

"Foster entered Derrick apartment."

In a small, poorly furnished little room in an old brick-faced
dwelling several miles away, a grave-faced man listened to that
announcement over the phone. "Good!" he whispered. "And where is
Burks?"

The grave-faced man quietly hung up. Here, in this poor
tenement, Secret Agent "X" had established one of his many
hideouts. It had been a busy day for him. Through him, a tip had
reached police headquarters as to the location of the building
where "X" had been forced to face a firing squad. In the disguise
of a policeman, "X" had taken part in a raid that had netted the
police nothing. The wily creature whose identity was always hidden
beneath a shroud had moved his headquarters immediately after the
frustration of his bank-robbing scheme by Agent "X".

"X" had then repaired to this tenement hideout where he had been
in close touch with Bates and his agents. Various suspects had been
carefully watched, but aside from "Sleepy" Meguire's visit to a
one-time speakeasy, there was nothing to arouse suspicion.

As soon as he had hung up the phone, Agent "X" went about
creating another of his masterful disguises. This time, under his
magic fingers, the grave, gray face which he had affected all
afternoon gave place to the plump, rosy face of Inspector John
Burks. It was one of his most daring simulations, yet one which had
gained him valuable information many times before.

"X" left the tenement and went to a garage where a car was
waiting for him. It was a roadster with the letters "P.D."
lacquered on both doors.

A quarter of an hour later, "X" pulled up in front of the
apartment where Major Derrick lived. In a moment, imitating the
voice of John Burks to perfection, he announced himself through the
speaking-tube which led to Derrick's rooms. He was told to come up
at once.

"What's on your mind, Inspector?" Foster demanded, when "X" put
in his appearance.

"Plenty!" retorted the Agent. "I've got a straight tip,
commissioner. Dope on this corpse gang. If the tip's okeh, it'll
knock you over!"

"If it's okeh," remarked Foster skeptically.

Major Derrick spread his nostrils, and sniffed sharply. "There's
been so many false leads lately, inspector, I'm beginning to get
discouraged."

"You know Stinehope, the banker?" asked "X".

Both men nodded.

"Then come along. We're going to pick up Stinehope, and go out
to his bank."

"The bank's been closed for a long time," declared Foster.

"You don't know that Stinehope's connected with this crew, do
you?" Derrick demanded.

"X" shrugged. "Stinehope's bank has failed. But—well, do
you see what I mean?"

Derrick nodded gravely. "He doesn't seem to be hurt financially,
does he? With you in a moment. The sky looks threatening." Derrick
hurried into the next room to reappear a little later carrying a
raincoat. "Right, gentlemen. On our way."

TEN minutes later, the Agent's fake police car, carrying the
commissioner and his friend, pulled up in front of the Stinehope
mansion. Derrick climbed into the rumble seat with Foster. "X" went
up to the Stinehope house to get the banker.

"I am afraid I don't quite understand, inspector," said the
small, thoughtful-faced Mr. Stinehope when "X" informed him that he
must come with him.

"I believe you will when we reach the bank," said "X"
gruffly.

"The bank? Why, no banks are open at this time of the
night!"

"This one's open twenty-four hours a day!"

The Agent waited for Stinehope to get his hat; then taking him
by the arm, led him out to the car.

As the banker began to realize the direction the car was taking,
he was seized with a violent fit of trembling. From his position at
the wheel, "X" watched him surreptitiously. "Matter, Stinehope?" he
asked.

"Where are we going?"

"To your bank," said the Agent, "I want you to see
something."

"X" drove the police car into the alley, and stopped behind Otho
Berg's tailoring shop. The place was dark, but the door yielded to
one of "X's" master keys.

"You've a search warrant?" asked Foster, who was a stickler for
police routine.

"X" nodded. He had nothing of the sort, but he knew that he was
not likely to run up against any opposition from the owner of the
shop. He had checked up on Berg. The man was above reproach and
half blind from his years at the bench. It was little wonder that
the corpse mob had been able to construct the secret door leading
from the tailor shop into the bank vault. Probably, they had worked
only at late hours of the night.

After a few minutes of perfectly unnecessary search, "X" found
the secret opening in the brick wall. "Now," he said, "we enter the
closed and supposedly empty vault of Mr. Stinehope's bank."

"I tell you, sir, this is the most surprising thing I have ever
witnessed!" declared Stinehope.

"That may be," replied "X" dryly. He pointed out the place where
the steel wall of the vault had been cut by the acetylene
torch.

"Amazing!" cried Derrick as "X" pushed through the steel panel
and entered the vault.

Commissioner Foster was speechless.

"Got the master key to these safety deposit boxes?" asked "X" of
Stinehope.

"N—no," the banker stuttered. "They are in my office in
the next room. But what you expect to find, is beyond me. These
boxes have all been emptied—"

"Get the keys," the Agent cut in. "This vault probably contains
the cash which was lifted by the corpse gang. Can't this vault be
opened from the inside?"

Stinehope nodded. "After one of our clerks was nearly suffocated
inside this vault, I installed an electric lock operating from the
inside as a safety measure." He approached the great circular door,
touched a button on the lock mechanism, and threw his weight
against the door.

As Stinehope was about to leave the vault, Foster seized
Derrick's arm, whispered: "Don't let Stinehope out of your
sight!"

Stinehope was crossing the room toward what had once been his
office. Derrick nodded, and ran on ridiculously short legs to
Stinehope's side.

FOSTER turned to the Agent. "Where did you get this information,
inspector?"

"From Secret Agent 'X'" replied the Agent.

Foster frowned. "I don't understand—"

"Naturally. Secret Agent 'X' is a much misunderstood man,
commissioner. He's done some queer things, but he doesn't happen to
be the head of the Corpse-Legion. Some one is impersonating
him."

Was there a look of suspicion in Foster's eyes? "X" knew that he
skated on thin ice. Foster knew of the Agent's many disguises. At
one time, "X" had actually impersonated the commissioner
himself.

"You see," the Agent explained quickly, "anyone could
impersonate Agent 'X'. Had you thought of that? Since 'X' seems to
have a limitless number of faces, each of which he wears equally
well—"

A cry of stark terror echoed and re-echoed throughout the
chamber. The front door of the building had suddenly been thrown
open. With deadly machine guns bristling, a small army of men
advanced—men whose faces were faces of men long since dead.
With silent, terrifying swiftness the Corpse-Legion advanced into
the room.

With the quickness of a cat, Major Derrick sprang toward a small
elevator cage. He dragged the paralyzed banker behind him. He flung
back the door, threw Stinehope inside, and followed. Two of the
mobsters leaped toward the elevator. Derrick knocked over the
starting lever and at the same time drew his automatic. His was the
first shot, fired from the rapidly ascending cage.

Foster drew a gun and dropped behind a marble counter. "X" was
beside him in a moment, flattening himself on the floor just as a
sub-machine gun began its hateful rattle. Slugs drilled jagged
holes in the marble facing of the counter. Agent "X's" powerful
hand was over the commissioner's head, pressing him flat to the
floor. But a fraction of an inch separated them from the searing
line of lead from the machine gun. One of the pellets burned across
the Agent's hand, drawing blood.

"Not a sound," the Agent warned. "We haven't a chance against
that mob."

Came the sound of feet pelting up the stair. "X" knew that an
effort was being made to cut off Stinehope and Derrick. He raised
his head ever so slightly, peering through one of the jagged holes
drilled by machine-gun fire. One of the corpse-faced criminals
guarded the front door. Two more were tiptoeing toward their hiding
place, guns ready for instant use.

"X" nudged Foster. "Back! Work your way back to the vault. It's
our only chance. I'll hold them back until you get clear."

"Right! We'll move toward the vault together." The Agent's hand
went to his pocket, and closed over a small metal cartridge. "Turn
around, Foster," he directed. "Get the position of that vault in
your mind. Close your eyes, and go for it. I've got a tear gas bomb
here that will fix 'em."

*AUTHOR'S NOTE: Probably, Agent "X" employed tear gas here,
rather than a bomb containing his anesthetizing vapor, because tear
gas is recognized by the police as an orthodox weapon. It must be
remembered that when "X" assumes a disguise, he immediately
identifies himself with the character of the man he represents.
Foster, who has met Agent "X" many times, would have certainly
known that the man who accompanied him was not Inspector Burks if
"X" had used some strange weapon, rather than tear gas.

"Got it!" whispered Foster. "Let go the gas!"

"X" had already snaked his way toward the end of the counter.
Suddenly, his arm shot out around the corner of the counter. There
was a faint pop, a hiss, and immediately the acrid fumes of the gas
started to spread. "X" scrambled to his feet. There came the
rat-tat-tat of a machine gun—wild, aimless shots that jagged
slivers from the floor beneath his feet. Though his eyes were
streaming from the effects of the gas, "X" made out Foster's
stumbling form.

The commissioner was yards from the door of the vault. "X"
sprang to him, seized him by the small of the back, and shoved him
into the vault.

It required all of his strength to yank the door shut behind
them.

HE leaped to the end of the vault, and pulled open the secret
door. A shadow flitted across the interior of the tailor shop.
There was the sound of heavy breathing. A door opened for an
instant and closed. The sound of feet running up a metal stairway.
"X" leaped through the opening, drawing his gas gun. For a moment,
the light from a window flashed across a cruel, noxious face. One
of the corpse-criminals had been sent to cut off their escape.
Orange-red gun flame slashed through the gloom.

"X" dropped flat, rolled to one side and encountered a chair.
His legs doubled, shot out, sending the chair spinning across the
room toward the place from which the gun-shot had come. The man
fired at the moving chair. On his feet, "X" leaped toward the
shadowy figure. He landed full weight upon the man's back. His left
arm crooked around the killer's neck. His right clawed darkness,
searching for the man's gun.

Together, they crashed to the floor. "X's" hand slid along the
killer's right arm, and met an automatic. With a powerful wrench,
he disarmed the man, gripped the automatic, and drove it hard
against the man's head. The killer suddenly relaxed. On his feet
again, "X" called:

"Foster where are you?" He pulled out his flashlight, sending
the spear of light through the gloom toward the secret door of the
vault. His face pale, but his jaw firmly set, Foster sprang through
the opening.

"Burks, are you hurt?"

"Not a scratch. This way!" The Agent seized Foster's arm and
dragged him to the back of the shop and through the open door into
the alley. "Get to a call box, and sound an alarm. The chief killer
was here tonight! Get the boys here at once—"

Suddenly, air near the Agent's face was violently fanned. An
oath stumbled from Foster's lips. There was a hideous flopping
sound as something struck the pavement near at hand. The Agent's
flash performed an arc and came to rest upon a horrible black blot
on the alley pavement. A human being had been hurled from the sky
to certain destruction. Foster dropped to his knees beside the
man—a smallish man wearing a dark suit.

"Derrick!" Foster cried. He seized the shoulders of the corpse,
turned it over. Blond hair was matted with blood; bone and
cartilage had been crushed. The face was a pulpy mass of crimson.
"Derrick!" Foster held the battered thing tenderly. His white face
was set in a mask of pain. He shook his fist at the black sky
above.

"Thrown out of the window!" Agent "X" gritted. "I'm going up,
sir." He ran to the back of the building. The lower flight of the
fire-escape had been raised by means of counter-balance weights.
"X" launched himself in a upward leap. His grasping fingers caught
the lower step of the fire escape, dragged it down. Above him,
yellow light filtered through one window. "X" took the steps three
at a time until he came to the office floor. From the fire-escape,
he stared into the deserted office.

A chair had been tipped over; the panel of the door had been
splintered. "X" climbed over the sill and approached an untidy
desk. There lay a piece of paper upon which a message had been
scrawled. "X" picked up the note and read:

Dear Foster:

Can't possibly imagine why I never thought of the lucrative
practice of kidnapping. How much do you think Mrs. Stinehope will
pay for the return of her husband? Am leaving Derrick to you.

The note was signed, "Secret Agent 'X'."

"X" crushed the piece of paper and thrust it into his pocket.
Then he returned to the window. Outside sounded the scream of
sirens. "X" realized that there was nothing more for him to do
there. He returned by the way he had come, anxious to avoid the
police lest the real Inspector Burks should be among them.

At the bottom of the fire escape, he found Foster waiting for
him. Some of the newly arrived police were carrying the mangled
body of Derrick into the bank building. There were no signs of the
corpse-criminals.

"I have a grave matter to discuss with you, Burks," said Foster,
taking hold of "X's" arm. "We must leave here at once. Come along
to the car."

Wondering what was on the commissioner's mind, "X" returned with
Foster to the bogus police car.

"X" nodded. "His kid, Betty, was left alone when he died. Betty
works on the Herald. Nice girl."

"That's the trouble," said Foster slowly. "I can't fathom it. I
have just received information that Betty Dale is to be placed
under arrest!"

For a moment, Agent "X" was too amazed to speak. Then he forced
a laugh. "Good Lord, she couldn't have done anything!"

"There was another police killing this afternoon. A small
jewelry store was held up. Another police squad car was riddled
with machine-gun bullets from that damnable black mystery car. That
ingenious camera device, which poor Derrick invented to take
pictures of the occupants of the mystery car, had a different story
to tell this time. A blonde woman was behind that murdering machine
gun. She has been positively identified as Betty Dale. Knowing what
I think of Betty Dale, the information was withheld for some time.
What do you suggest?"

"X" HESITATED a moment. At the next corner, he turned abruptly
to the right. "We'll head for Miss Dale's apartment at once," he
said. "If it has to come to an arrest, I think it would be better
if you and I, both her friends, handled it on the quiet. It's my
opinion that there's a trick somewhere."

"A camera doesn't lie," said Foster softly.

"No, but there's many a trick up the photographer's sleeve," the
Agent persisted.

And for the remainder of the distance, both men were silent.

Having mounted the steps to Betty's room, Foster and Agent "X"
found Betty at her typewriter. She was frankly amazed at this late
visit from the police commissioner and the man she thought to be
Inspector Burks. Cordially, she invited them to enter her tidy
living room.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" she asked as she passed a
small coffer of cigarettes.

Foster fidgeted and looked at "X". Secret Agent "X" was staring
at the toes of his shoes. Foster drew a long breath. "The truth is,
Miss Dale, that is, I'm afraid you're in trouble."

A smile melted from the girl's face. Her lovely blue eyes
widened. "Just what sort of trouble, commissioner?" she asked.

A puzzled frown crimped Betty's forehead. She laughed a little
weakly. "Surely you are not serious!"

"So serious," said Foster, "that there's a warrant out for your
arrest on the charge of murder. Things look pretty black for you.
At headquarters, they have a picture which clearly shows you
crouching behind the machine gun which sent four policemen and two
pedestrians to their deaths."

Betty dropped into a chair. For a moment, she remained silent.
Then:

"I hardly know what to say. There's been some terrible mistake
somewhere. I would like very much to see that picture."

Foster stood up. "May I use your phone? I think it would be
easier for all of us if we thrashed this matter out right here.
I'll have one of the boys bring that picture right over. If there's
been a mistake, you'll find that we are just as anxious to get
things straightened out as you are." Foster walked over to Betty's
small desk, picked up the phone.

Agent "X" sought Betty's face. Then he glanced over at the
commissioner. Foster's back was toward them. The Secret Agent
raised his hand, and drew the letter "X" in the air with his
forefinger.

Betty took a deep breath. It was like a sob of relief. New color
flooded her face. "X" pressed a finger to his lips.

"Hello. Police headquarters?" Foster was speaking. "This is
Commissioner Foster. Connect me with the Homicide Bureau." Foster
waited. He turned his head to smile hopefully at Betty.

Though there was no outward indication, every nerve in Agent
"X's" body was taut as a drawn steel wire. After a seemingly
endless moment, Foster turned back to the phone.

"Foster speaking," said the commissioner brusquely. "Regarding
that picture taken of the blonde woman behind the machine gun in
the mystery car. Would you send that over to Miss Dale's
apartment?...Hello. Who is this speaking, please?"

CHAPTER IX — SHADOW OF THE SHROUD

BUT at the first inflection of doubt in the commissioner's
voice, Agent "X" had sprung to his feet. Before he could touch his
gun, Foster found himself staring into the Agent's gas gun.

"You—you are Secret Agent 'X'!" Foster accused.

"I am Secret Agent 'X'. Though I hate to remind a man of any
favor I have done him, you will always remember me as the man who
saved your life tonight. Right now—sleep, and forget."

The gas gun in "X's" hand hissed like a snake. A puff of vapor
wreathed the commissioner's face. Foster choked, staggered forward,
and fell into the Agent's arms. Agent "X" shifted his grip, lifted
the commissioner bodily, and walked through the door into Betty's
bedroom. He stretched Foster out on the bed, then returned to
Betty.

The girl was obviously ill at ease. "I was so afraid for a
moment that you were caught," she whispered. "It would have been
terrible, terrible to watch them take you away!"

"X" smiled cheerfully. "Poor Foster! He looked a bit helpless,
didn't he. But I admire the man. He's a human being clear through.
But put on your hat, Betty. You can't stay here. The real Inspector
Burks is probably on his way here now. He'll have the warrant and
that picture."

Betty paled slightly. "You—you don't think I had anything
to do with it?"

"X" laughed heartily. "Bless your heart! Of course, you didn't.
But we can't have you spending the night in jail. Rival papers
would fry the Herald plenty with their star reporter in
prison."

"But what does it all mean?"

"X" grew suddenly serious. "It means that you and I are in the
tightest place we ever have been in. The criminal behind the
corpse-gang not only calls himself Agent 'X', but he imitates my
own methods. After the robbery at the Krausman store, what did you
do, Betty?"

Standing in front of a mirror, Betty was adjusting her hat. "X"
thought that he had never seen anything so beautifully appealing as
the reflection in that mirror. Then Betty spoke.

"I went out and got in a taxi. I was acting according to your
instructions—to leave as soon as possible. The taxi driver
took me a little way in the direction of my apartment. Then he
stopped, turned around, and confronted me with a gun. I think I
cried out, but before I knew anything else, he had struck me on the
head."

THE Agent's steely eyes flashed. "And how long were you
unconscious before you awoke in the house of leopards?"

"I've no idea. When I came to, I was too frightened to
think."

"Did you notice if your face felt stiff and dry?" the Agent
asked.

"Now that you mention it, I believe it did."

"X" nodded, took the girl's arm and steered her through the
door. "You see," he whispered as he led her toward the stairway,
"this killer has been fighting me with my own weapons. I noticed
the same dry feeling on my face when I came to in his prison cell.
It was caused by the material he uses in making the masks."

"You mean that while I was unconscious, some one made a mask
from my face? Then—then you—"

"X" nodded grimly. "A mask of some sort to get all the features.
That enables him to re-create, in a flexible material, the exact
counterpart of anyone's features."

"But your face—your real face. Has he seen it?"

"Undoubtedly. What is more, he has a record of it in one of
those masks. He's saving it for a coup. That is why this leader of
the corpse-legion is the most dangerous man I have ever met."

Outside, "X" opened the door of the police car. "I'm driving you
to a friend's house. There's a woman there who can be thoroughly
trusted. She is one of my agents. You must stay with her until the
skies clear. And don't worry, Betty."

The following afternoon "X" received a communication from Bates
that sent the blood coursing a little swifter through his arteries.
Another robbery, another brutal police killing had been enacted.
But this time, the patient, searching eyes of "X's" own
intelligence force had been on the look out. One of the Agent's own
planes, equipped with a moving-picture camera, had followed the
course taken by the mystery car. It was little wonder that the
mystery car always seemed to vanish into thin air.

The aerial camera had traced the black destroyer along its
course, into the mouth of an alley where it had met a huge moving
van. A retractable incline had been lowered from the truck,
awaiting the mystery car. The black roadster had bumped up the
incline and into the van. The incline had been withdrawn, the doors
of the van closed. Then the van lumbered from the alley, apparently
going about its legitimate business.

But the aerial camera had not stopped there. It had recorded the
movement of the van, tracing it through crooked streets until it
backed up against a garage coupled with an apparently deserted
brick building in the west end of town. Further checking had
furnished the address of that house. It was leased in the name of
Steven Pyke.

Consulting his records, "X" learned that Pyke had been a
small-time crook who had been out of prison for five years and had
apparently gone straight.

Half an hour after he had received this important information
from Bates, Agent "X" sauntered down the street on which the Pyke
house was situated. He wore the shabby garments of a day laborer.
Grease and dirt stained his face. A blue denim cap was pushed back
from iron-gray hair.

"X" walked past the Pyke house, apparently without paying any
attention to it. Then he rounded the corner of the block, and
continued walking until he came to the alley.

He entered the alley and proceeded slowly along, apparently
concerned only with the contents of the ash barrels along the
route. When he reached the back of the Pyke house, he stopped, and
dug around a pile of tin cans with a stick he carried. He lingered
there until a woman, who was beating rugs in the yard behind a
neighboring house, went inside. Then he approached the door of the
garage which was attached to the big brick house.

It required but a moment for him to unlock the door with one of
his master keys. He stepped inside, and closed the door behind him.
The room which he had entered was a large one. There was room for
three cars. However, at present it was occupied only by the black,
streamlined roadster which had terrorized the city. The two
embalmed corpses were artfully posed in the seat of the car.

"X's" eyes hurried around the garage, paying particular
attention to the floor. At length, he tiptoed to the roadster,
dropped on hands and knees and looked beneath the car. On the floor
beneath was a flat steel plate that looked as though it covered a
pit intended for draining oil from the car. Flat on the floor, "X"
wormed himself beneath the mystery car until he could reach the
steel plate in the floor. He hooked his fingers on the edge of the
plate and pushed it forward. It moved easily on oiled guides. As
"X" had expected, an oil draining pit was concealed beneath the
plate. "X" rolled over the edge of the pit and dropped to the
sunken floor below.

HE beamed his flashlight over the walls of the narrow pit.
Nothing escaped his keen eyes. Everything seemed to indicate that
here was an oil drain pit and nothing else. However, "X" noted that
a green-painted cabinet attached to the wall, was considerably
larger than was necessary to hold automobile wrenches. He opened
the green door of the cabinet. Four shelves held as many tools. He
tapped gently on the back of the cabinet. He felt sure that he
would find an opening behind it. His sensitive fingers hurried
about the inside of the cabinet, searching for some sort of a
concealed spring.

It was only after lifting an extra heavy pipe wrench that he
understood the mechanism; for in lifting the wrench, the shelf upon
which it rested raised slightly, releasing a hidden latch. "X"
pushed on the back of the cabinet. Shelves and all swung inward on
well oiled hinges. He stepped through the opening into a
rough-walled, narrow passage.

His flashlight lanced ahead. "X" saw that the earth-walled
corridor widened only a few feet ahead into a tiny room. Here,
uneven timbers formed rough walls that extended in a chimney-like
shaft through the basement, and into the upper part of the house. A
rude bunk was fastened to one wall. On the other wall several
black, shroudlike garments hung on hooks.

Probably, "X" thought, this room was known only to the leader of
the gang. Here, he could adopt the black, shapeless garment which
identified him. Then an audacious scheme occurred to Agent "X". He
took down one of the shroudlike garments, draped it over his head
and shoulders, and tied it in place with the black cord provided.
Eye-holes cut in the cloth enabled him to see perfectly. No
disguise could have been more difficult to penetrate; none could be
more simple.

"X" located a rude ladder nailed to the wall and extending up
the shaft into the house. He climbed it quickly to bump his head
against the floor above. For a moment, he remained stationary,
listening. But he could hear no sound. Very slowly, he pushed up
against a trapdoor until his eyes were level with the floor. He was
looking into what appeared to be a large closet. He pushed open the
trapdoor more fully, and crawled inside. He unlocked the door of
the closet—it latched on the inside—and stepped into
the room beyond.

Agent "X" froze. A man sat in a chair directly in front of him.
The man's head was hidden behind a newspaper. Evidently, he had not
heard "X" enter. Beneath the black robe, "X's" hands found his gas
gun. He held it ready for immediate use. He coughed slightly.

The man in the chair dropped the newspaper and leaped to his
feet. He was a narrow-headed man with a thin, twisted nose, and a
receding chin. "X" recognized him immediately as Steve Pyke—a
little older than when "X" had last seen him, and perhaps more
worldly wise than when he had entered prison some years ago.

"Cripes, chief, someday you're goin' to send me into a panic! I
didn't hear you come in. You're about five minutes early. When do
we start for Memorial Hall?"

TO the best of his ability, "X" recalled the voice of the gang
chief. "There is no need to hurry," he replied,—evading
Pyke's question the best he could...Memorial Hall! "X" recalled an
announcement he had seen in the paper. The famous antique treasures
from the monastic shrines of the city of Kiev, Russia, were to be
exhibited in Memorial Hall. The Soviet Government, as a good-will
gesture, was sponsoring the exhibit in the city. Aside from the
value of the treasures from an antique collector's viewpoint,
nearly everything in the exhibit was fashioned from purest gold and
set with precious stones. The exhibition was to open that night for
the benefit of a large number of wealthy art collectors. With the
price of gold soaring, it was just the sort of thing that would
attract the corpse-gang.

"Sure hope you know what you you're doin', chief," Pyke went on.
"I don't get it. You say you warned the police? Now if the hall's
filled with police, how do you expect to pick up all that gold
stuff?"

"Do you question my ability?"

Pyke paled slightly. "No. But there was one time when things
went haywire—that time Agent 'X' turned up behind the machine
gun in the robot car."

"Do not worry about Agent 'X'," he said to Pyke. "Step a little
closer and I will tell you exactly what I intend to do with
him."

Pyke obeyed a little reluctantly. "X" tossed aside the folds of
the black garment he wore. The snout of the gas gun menaced Steve
Pyke. Pyke opened his mouth, but the cry of terror choked in his
throat as "X" directed a full charge of gas straight into the man's
face. Pyke's knees melted under him, and he sagged to the
floor.

Then "X" carried Pyke into the closet which served as an outlet
for the gang leader's secret passage. There he found a small
mirror, and propping the unconscious man against the wall, "X" took
off the black garment, took his make-up kit from his pocket, and
began another transformation.

NEVER had his skillful fingers moved so rapidly. He did not know
but that at any minute, the real leader of the gang would put in an
appearance. Plastic volatile material, pigments of his own
concoction, worked together to make simulated flesh and features in
perfect imitation of Pyke's face. He replaced the gray wig he wore
with a slick brown toupee. Time was passing rapidly. He dared not
look at his watch. He must yet change clothes with Pyke, and find
some means of concealing the unconscious man.

It required exactly three minutes to effect the change of
clothes. A folding in-a-door bed in the next room offered a place
in which to conceal Pyke. "X" took a last look in the mirror to
make certain that his make-up was beyond reproach.

There came a knock at the door. "X" crossed to the panel, turned
the key, not to admit, the shrouded leader, but Felice Vincart. She
was followed by a retinue of the corpse-faced criminals. The
Leopard Lady crossed the room with a graceful, catlike tread. Her
green eyes flashed at "X". For a moment, he was afraid that those
strange eyes must pierce his disguise.

"I have a message from our leader," Felice Vincart purred. "He
has been detained. He awaits information concerning the activities
of Secret Agent 'X'. He does not want to move until he is certain
that 'X' will be in Memorial Hall. It is his intention that 'X'
shall die along with Foster, Burks, and others associated with the
law.

"We are all to proceed exactly as planned. You, Pyke, will go
first, entering the building through the basement door before the
guests of the evening are admitted into that part of the building
where the exhibit is to be held. It will be your duty to assist
with the distribution of the monoxide. The rest of the group will
enter the building after the gas has done its work. You, Pyke,
shall kill the custodian of the building. You will find him in the
basement."

"Let me get this straight," said one of the men behind Felice
Vincart. "We're to go into that treasure house after it's been
filled with poison gas?"

The Leopard Lady's glittering eyes flashed upon the speaker.
"You will all be provided with gas masks. You will be the only
living things in the hall. The chief has selected carbon monoxide
gas because of all gases it is the most treacherous. It has neither
color nor odor. It will simply put everyone in the building to
sleep before they know it. It will be a sleep from which there is
no awakening.

"Now, go at once. Pyke, you will probably meet our leader in the
basement of the building. A car is waiting for you outside the
front door. Do not return to this house. It will be abandoned after
tonight. You all know of our next meeting place."

Rubbing shoulders with death-faced killers, "X" moved through
the door, and into a large reception hall. There, the gang idled,
waiting, evidently for the gas masks they were to wear. But "X" was
free to leave the building.

He went out the front door, and entered a small coupe that had
evidently been provided for his use. He drove down the street,
turning the next corner on two wheels, pushing the little car to
its best. He drove apparently without thought as to destination.
Actually, he was winding a trail that he was certain could not be
followed.

He braked the coupe in front of a drug store, got out, and
entered a telephone booth. There, he called the Hobart Detective
Agency.

"Hello, Jim," he said, using the voice of A. J. Martin, a
newspaper man, for it was only in this character that Hobart knew
his chief. "I want you to meet a man by the name of Steve Pyke in
the basement of Memorial Hall. Get there as soon as possible. Pyke
is a man with a thin nose, receding chin, and dark brown hair
licked back. Obey him in everything. This is very important."

He waited only for Hobart's cheerful: "Okeh." Then he was out in
the street, into the coupe, and speeding toward Memorial Hall.

CHAPTER X — BENEATH THE SHROUD

A SMALL cement court backed the great brick and limestone
building that was Memorial Hall. The arched windows of the hall
were tinted with soft lights. A string ensemble was tuning up in
the ball room where, in glass cases, reposed a king's ransom in the
wealth of by-gone days.

Chalices, altar pieces, elaborately wrought icons, all worked in
precious metals and incrusted with priceless jewels were exhibited
for the first time outside of the ancient Russian churches.

Agent "X" drove the coupe into the court. Before he could get
out, a man sprang from a shadowy corner and challenged him. Light
from the dash of the car revealed the man's features. "X"
recognized him as Malvern, one of Inspector Burks' best detectives.
Yet there was something about the expression in the man's eyes that
was entirely unlike Malvern.

A nervous laugh came from the man's lips. "Oh, it's you,
Pyke!"

The voice was vaguely familiar to "X." It was certainly not the
voice of Detective Malvern.

"What's the idea?" Agent "X" asked as he swung out of the
car.

"Chief's orders," whispered the other. "I'm taking the place of
a detective who is suffering from lead poisoning at the moment. You
and two others are the only ones to be admitted through this back
door."

"X" nodded. "Show me the way."

The man who was disguised as Malvern led the way to a door
opening in the foundation of the building. He thrust a key into the
lock, and opened the door. Ahead was a darkened stairway. "X's"
hand went to his pocket, closed over the butt of his gas
pistol.

"Look here, you," he said, when the man had opened the door.

The man turned around, startled by the change of tone in the
Agent's voice. "X's" gun nosed over the edge of his pocket. He
pulled the trigger. Gas hissed into the man's face. His evil eyes
flickered. He would have cried out, but at such short range he had
received a considerable quantity of the anesthetizing vapor.

He staggered backward against the wall, then slid down to the
pavement. For a moment, the Agent crouched over him. His fingers
felt the man's cheeks. They had the resilience of rubber. The man's
face was completely covered with a thin, flexible mask duplicating
the features of Malvern to perfection.

The flexible material peeled away easily enough, and for a
moment "X" stared down into a countenance fundamentally weak. It
was not the face of a habitual criminal. "X" recognized the man as
Terry Rankin, a young man-about-town who had recently suffered
heavy financial losses.

"X" lifted the unconscious man and returned him to the shadowy
corner where he had been hiding. Then, the Agent entered the
basement door, and proceeded down the dark flight of steps. He had
decided that it was prudent to get the guard out of the way in case
it became necessary for him to beat a hasty retreat.

Flashlight beaming ahead, "X" saw that the first room of the
basement was evidently used only to store folding chairs which were
sometimes set up in the hall when it was used for banquets and
entertainments. Though his information was incomplete, "X" knew
that if the poison gas was to be distributed throughout the
building from the basement this could only be accomplished through
the heating and ventilating system. Accordingly, he hurried down
the concrete-lined corridor to a door at the end marked
Furnace.

In a chair that was tilted back against the wall, "X" saw an
overall-clad form. A blue cap was tilted over the man's eyes, and
he was apparently napping. As "X" approached on tiptoe, the man
slowly raised his head.

"X" stopped. For beneath the shadow of the cap, was the broad,
red face of Jim Hobart.

THE private detective grinned, stood up, and touched the bill of
his cap. "Mr. Pyke? I'm Jim Hobart. Mr. Martin was telling me I was
to meet you here."

"How the devil did you get past the guard at the door?" Agent
"X" asked, retaining the voice of Steve Pyke.

The private detective chuckled. "I walked in the front door,
using my detective pass. Then I worked my way down to the basement
where the custodian gave me a little trouble. I had to rap him over
the head with one of his own pipe wrenches before he would listen
to reason. I thought it might be better if I switched clothes with
him."

"Good work!" the Agent "X" commended. "You've been in the
furnace room? See anything that looks like it might have the making
of carbon monoxide?"

"Monoxide!" Hobart exclaimed. "I did see some odd looking
cylinders in there. They're all connected with tubing. I thought it
was a part of the regular air conditioning system."

"It'll condition the air, right enough!" declared "X" grimly.
"It'll fill that hall above with corpses! This is a corpse-gang
stunt, Hobart. It's up to you and me to save those people upstairs.
That hall will be crammed with a thousand or more guests and
police. The leader of the gang had the nerve to warn the police.
He's out to run up another big record as the world's greatest
butcher. Let's go, Jim!"

"X" pushed open the door, and led the way into the furnace room.
The room was dimly lighted. Three great furnaces, hundreds of
crossing pipes, large tanks, and electrically driven stoker cast
weird shadows on the dull gray walls, and rendered a vast room
seemingly small.

"Wait!" Secret Agent "X" held up a cautioning hand. He felt
Hobart's fingers close upon his arm. "Footsteps, Hobart, scuffing
on the other side of that door. Get behind one of those tanks. Wait
till I call you."

"Right!" The blue-overall-clad figure moved like a shadow across
the room. "X" stood perfectly still, his hand on the butt of his
gas pistol. The door knob turned; the door swung slowly on its
hinges. Outside, the hall was dark, but a darker shadow moved
through the gloom. Only a pair of eyes were visible, gleaming
through a shroud of black. The leader of the corpse-criminals
seemed to float into the room.

"Everything is ready," came a husky whisper from behind the
shroud. "The room above is crowded with guests and police. Turn on
the gas, Pyke. You will find the valve just ahead of the manifold
of the air conditioner."

Hobart needed no urging. The eye of his automatic was fastened
on the black-robed figure. Still holding his gas gun, "X" strode to
the shrouded one. With a quick, snatching motion, he untied the
cord that held the shroud, and yanked the garment aside.

FOR the first time in his career, surprise rendered the Secret
Agent unable to move. For beneath the shroud, contrary to all
conclusions that "X" had drawn, was the beautiful Felice Vincart.
Her green eyes were as cold as the sea. On her scarlet lips was a
smile that was like poisoned honey.

Not for a single moment had "X" suspected that the wealthy,
thrill-seeking Leopard Lady possessed the necessary intellect to
guide the gang along its corpse-strewn road of crime. Spy; lovely
pawn in the hands of the master she might be; but that she directed
the malign forces of the corpse-gang was unthinkable.

"Drop that gun, Secret Agent 'X'!"

Warm breath forcibly exhaled fanned "X's" ear. He half turned
his head to encounter the cold snout of an automatic pressed to his
temple. He caught a glimpse of a red, grinning face—the face
of Jim Hobart!

The Leopard Lady sprang toward "X." A blow from her small fist
knocked the gas pistol from his fingers. For just a moment, Agent
"X" had been dazed. He should have known! The master criminal who
fought "X" with his own weapons had somehow managed to impersonate
Jim Hobart.

"You're not Jim Hobart!" 'X' said through clenched teeth.

The man with the gun still grinned. "And you'll not be Agent 'X'
if you make the slightest move. You'll just be a thing."

"X" felt the Leopard Lady's slender hand pass through each
pocket, stripping him of his equipment.

"You poor fool!" the man who looked like Hobart whispered. "At
the robbery of the Krausman Store, you were singled out and so was
Hobart. Evidently, he was an associate of yours. Since early
morning, I have been in Hobart's office, impersonating him just as
you might have done. I was waiting for a call from you. In this
manner, I could learn your plans. See how simple it all is? Since
that day when I found my son on a slab in the morgue, killed by
police bullet, I have planned how I might have my revenge.

"He was killed by what men call an error. In my organization,
there is no chance for error. Years I have practiced voice control
until now I can imitate any male voice to perfection. Then I sought
for a suitable disguise. I found it. I created my own
army—faces of the past worn by living men. Hidden behind the
masks I have made, you would find not men of the criminal class,
but men who have become discontented with the lot fate gave
them—thrill-seekers, financial failures, men of brain and
brawn. That is my army. And the police believed them corpses! The
city was terrified!"

"So you are the leader of the gang," Secret Agent "X" whispered.
"And the Leopard Lady was your spy. But what have you done with Jim
Hobart?"

"Oh, yes, Hobart. Let me see. I believe I brought him over to
this building when my men and I came disguised as plumbers to rig
up this gas generating outfit. Hobart is upstairs somewhere, bound
in a closet. But he will be able to breathe—breathe the
odorless fumes of the carbon monoxide that at this very moment is
being pumped into buildings by means of the blower of the air
conditioner. He will die along with the police and thousands of
others.

"And with you and Burks and Foster and scores of others out of
my way, I will carve from the underworld a greater empire than
Napoleon dreamed of. That will be my revenge on the law!"

Realizing that many lives depended upon him, "X" went into
action without for a moment considering the risk he ran. Lightning
lashing the storm cloud, a meteor streaking the sky, an arrow in
its flight—such make suitable comparisons for the speed with
which "X's" right arm moved. Before the criminal chief could
squeeze the trigger of that gun, "X" had knocked up the barrel. The
gun made no noise, for—it was effectively silenced; but "X"
heard the rattle of the shot among the pipes overhead. He ducked,
drove his right shoulder straight into the criminal's midsection.
The man was thrown off balance, but he still retained his gun.

"X" sprang past him, zigzagged toward the great tanks of
monoxide. He leaped behind one, knowing well that neither the
Leopard Lady nor the bogus Jim Hobart would dare to shoot him; for
if a stray bullet were to pierce the base of one of those tanks,
the invisible, odorless death would flow into the room. For a
moment he looked upwards through the maze of pipes.

He saw the great pipe that led from the air conditioner blower;
he saw the smaller pipe from the monoxide tanks feeding into it.
Because the gas was heavier than air, he knew that the valve
connecting the gas source with the blower would have to be lower
than the tanks themselves. He ducked behind a furnace flue and saw
just such a valve within an arm's length of where he stood. He
reached for it, looking under the metal tank-brace of the gang
chief.

"You fool!" shouted the man. "That is not the valve!"

A GRIM smile crossed the Agent's face. "Isn't it? If it were not
the valve controlling the gas, you would have shot me immediately.
You are much too clever to shoot now. A miss and your bullet would
nick one of these death-laden pipes!" And while he was talking with
the man who would have killed him, "X" was screwing the valve
tightly shut.

In a moment of frenzied rage, the killer loosed a shot that by
some miracle burned across the Agent's arm, and cleared the
gas-filled pipes. "X" ducked behind a tank, turned, and almost
bumped into the Leopard Lady.

The gun in the woman's hand nosed upwards. Her cruel, catlike
eyes narrowed. "X" saw her finger constricting on the trigger. But
in that moment that he looked down at the gun, he learned something
that the Leopard Lady did not know. What appeared to be a deadly
automatic was in reality the Agent's gas pistol. "X" drew a deep
breath and held it.

Felice Vincart would have killed without mercy. She was even
smiling faintly at the moment that the gun in her hands hissed. The
anesthetizing gas jetted into "X's" face; but instead of gasping it
in, he exhaled with all his strength. Most of the vapor was blown
back, directly into the Leopard Lady's face. For a fraction of a
second, her face registered surprise. Then, she suddenly went limp;
her cat-green eyes closed, and she keeled over backwards.

"X" hurdled the woman's form and saw, behind one of the
furnaces, a possible exit from the maze of pipes and tanks. His
work was not half completed. He might have checked the monoxide
gas—if it had not already done its sinister work—but he
had not stopped the criminal invasion of Memorial Hall. He knew
that if life remained in anyone on the floor above, the corpse-gang
would riddle men and women with bullets.

But as he rounded the furnace, he came face to face with the
arch criminal. Both were surprised. The criminal's gun popped. A
slug drove into the Agent's side with the kick of a mule. His
bullet-proof vest stopped the shot, but the fearful impact made him
wince with pain. He led a terrific right that pounded into the
killer's middle. The man doubled, head coming forward to meet the
Agent's left hook to the temple. The man jackknifed to the floor,
and lay still.

"X" hurdled the unconscious killer, raced behind the next
furnace, and sprang into the open. He ran across the room, and
yanked open a door that led to a stairway.

He bounded up the stair, thankful that above he could still hear
the rumble of the crowd. He might yet be in time.

CHAPTER XI — THE BARGAIN

AT the top of the steps, "X" encountered a locked door. He
pounded furiously upon it. It opened. The Agent dove headlong into
the arms of Inspector Burks. Burks grappled with him, and, as "X"
showed considerable more strength than Burks had anticipated, the
inspector bellowed for assistance.

In another moment, "X" was surrounded by police. His arms were
pinned to his sides. He was as near helpless as he had ever
been.

"Well, well, well!" Burks rumbled. "It's Steve Pyke. Thought you
were the man who was going straight. You picked a great place for a
comeback, Pyke. You'd better think twice before you lay a hand on
this stuff."

Over Burks' shoulder, "X" looked across the room. Near the
ventilators in the wall, several men and women were lying on the
floor. Others were bending anxiously over them. The carbon monoxide
had been sufficient in quantity to attack those nearest its source.
In glass cases arranged in rows across the great hall, "X" saw the
priceless treasures of Kiev gleaming in the brilliant light.

"Inspector Burks! Listen to me!" Secret Agent "X" shouted. His
voice had the swaying power of a master orator. "It is imperative
that you get those people who have already succumbed, to the fresh
air. Carbon monoxide has been piped into the ventilating system.
It's a trick of the corpse—gang. They will be here to a man
any moment. Everything depends on how quickly you act."

"Listen to him!" Burks scoffed. "You'll not talk your way out of
this, Steve Pyke. Better slip on these cuffs before we force 'em
on."

Across the room, "X" saw Commissioner Foster approaching the
group of police. The commissioner had a worried look on his fine,
strong face.

Suddenly, "X's" right arm broke free from the man who held it.
He swung a wide haymaker that sent the man sprawling back against
his companions. With a mighty effort, he pulled away, dragging with
him three surprised police who clung to his legs and one arm.

He reached the commissioner. His hand dropped on Foster's
shoulder. His hypnotic, steely eyes drilled Foster's brain. "Unless
you act immediately, commissioner, the lives of every person in
this room may rest upon your conscience! I must speak with you
alone!"

"Foster," said "X" as soon as the door was closed, "the
corpse—gang will be here any moment."

The commissioner nodded. "We have been warned."

"Believe me, Foster, this is no hoax!" said "X" earnestly.
"Those people out there by this time should have fallen under the
influence of poisonous gas liberated through the air conditioners.
But when the gang arrives to find their leader has failed them, do
you think they will turn and run? Certainly. But they will shoot
their way out. Many innocent men and women may fall under their
fire. If you will force everyone from this building or into other
rooms, you and your men may lie in wait for the criminals, using
the Kiev treasure for bait. The gang will enter unsuspectingly, and
you will probably manage to capture the entire crew without the
loss of a man."

Foster showed little enthusiasm for the Agent's plan. "It all
sounds rather fantastic to me," he said.

"Do you honestly think I am lying?" 'X' pleaded.

"Steve Pyke never told the truth," said Foster coldly.

"X" stiffened. His hand passed over his face. It seemed but a
mere gesture; yet in that gesture, "X's" skillful fingers had
altered the entire expression of his face. His nose was broad and
crooked instead of thin. His chin jutted farther out. "Now, do you
know who I am? I am the man who once saved your life. If you owe
nothing to those people out there, surely you owe me something.
Commissioner Foster, I am Secret Agent 'X'!"

FOSTER drew a deep breath. His face held a worried expression.
Before him stood the man who was thought to be the law's deadliest
foe. Yet Foster could not deny that "X" had saved his life.

"If I agree to permit you to handcuff me, will you act upon the
instructions I have given you? And will you, in addition, search
the closets of this building and liberate a deserving young
detective by the name of Jim Hobart who was captured by the gang?
Think; you will have nothing on your conscience. You will have
saved thousands of lives; you will have captured Secret Agent
'X'."

Foster moved quickly. Handcuffs came jingling from his pocket.
He took "X's" arm, and led him across the room to where a grand
piano stood. He slipped one of the steel bracelets around one of
the turned legs and locked it in place. It could be moved neither
up nor down. He turned to the Agent. "I agree," he said. "Your
hand, please."

Mutely, Agent "X" extended his right hand. He had driven a
bargain that might well mean the loss of his life; for the police
were convinced that he was the most dangerous man alive. But to
save the lives of those men and women in the hall, he was willing
to make such a sacrifice-if it was necessary.

But as Foster clipped the cuff over the Agent's wrist, "X"
expanded that wrist by muscular tension. He had agreed only to be
handcuffed. By a clever feat, he would be able to compress the
joints of hand and wrist; he would be able to slip from that cuff
as soon as Foster was out of the room.

But no sooner was the cuff in place, than the door burst open.
Inspector Burks strode into the room. "Sorry to listen to your
confab, commissioner," he said. "You go out and herd the people
into the upstairs. Maybe this guy's tip was okeh, but the handcuff
business was a phony. If he's the man he says he is, handcuffs
don't mean anything-not unless you fix them the way I'm going to
now!"

*AUTHOR'S NOTE: Regular followers of the chronicles of Agent "X"
will remember that he has used this handcuff escape, taught him by
a Hindu fakir, a number of times. Inspector Burks had witnessed
just such a trick when "X" escaped from him before.

"Very well, Burks. I don't know exactly what you mean, but I
leave you in charge of the prisoner." Foster hurried across the
room, through the open door, and closed it behind him.

"Now, Agent 'X'!" Burks was completely triumphant. He dropped on
his knees. Both of his hands closed on the bracelet about "X's"
right wrist. The Inspector's beefy strength forced the ratchet jaws
of the cuff tighter and tighter until they bit deeply into "X's"
flesh. Suddenly, "X's" left arm whipped up behind Burks' head and
crooked around the inspector's neck. His powerful muscles
constricted, drawing Burks' head closer to his own. Great veins
swelled on Burks' face. For the first time in his life, he knew
what it would be like to have his neck broken.

The Agent's chin pressed against the bridge of Burks' nose. The
pressure of that powerful left arm increased steadily,
concentrating upon a particular nerve center at the base of Burks'
brain. For "X," master of jiujitsu, knew every paralyzing hold in
the category of the great Oriental system of defense. Burks'
eyelids fluttered. His eyes protruded. He became limp and
unconscious so suddenly that for a moment, "X" was afraid that he
had killed him. But no, Burks was quite alive, though unconscious
and gasping.

"X" released his grip. With his left hand, he frisked Burks'
garments and produced a small key. This he inserted in the lock of
the handcuffs. The jaws sprang apart. "X" took but a moment to
handcuff the unconscious inspector to the leg of the piano. Then he
was on his feet, running toward the door at the end of the room. He
was not certain where it led, but he knew he must avoid the police
at all costs.

THE door opened on a corridor that circumscribed the building.
Ahead of him were stairs leading down into the basement. As he
descended these steps, he heard the bark of an automatic inside the
great hall. For a moment, he feared that the corpse—gang had
entered before Foster had organized his ambush. He paused on the
steps only long enough to hear the commissioner shouting:

"Put up your hands! Drop those guns! You are surrounded!"

Certain that the police had succeeded in cornering the criminal
mob, "X" leaped on down the steps. The body of the gang might be in
the clutch of the law, but while the master criminal remained at
large not a person in the city was safe. "X" hoped that his blow to
the gang leader's head had kept the man unconscious. He was loath
to have the criminal fall into the hands of the police; for to
Agent "X," the shrouded one was the most dangerous man in the
world. He alone was in possession of "X's" secret.

"X" crossed a large recreation room in the basement of the
building, entered a corridor, and hurried toward the furnace room.
Inside the room, the dim light was still burning. Except for the
hollow thud of many feet on the floor above, the room was sinister
in its deathly silence.

"X" hurried behind the row of furnaces. The Leopard Lady lay
where he had left her. But the master criminal was gone.

Had the man made good his escape or had he adopted another
disguise in order to mingle with the crowd? "X" was inclined to
believe that the man would try to get clear of the hall as soon as
he discovered that his plan had failed. He would not have changed
his disguise; for though the gang chief seemed to have limitless
possibilities for vocal impersonation, his facial disguise depended
upon masks. Such masks would be somewhat difficult to carry
secretly.

"X" left the Leopard Lady there to be captured by the police.
Then he ran across the furnace room and into the hall beyond. He
hurried toward the rear basement entrance. As he bounded up the
steps, he heard the grind of a motor car starter. A powerful motor
kicked over. Flinging through the door and into the court, "X" saw
a long, black car rolling toward the alley. Even in the gloom, he
recognized it as the same black roadster that had terrified the
city and slaughtered members of the police force with its machine
gun.

"X" spurted, taxing his muscles to the limit. The long car swept
past him. He could see two figures crouched low in the seat.
Corpses or living men? A lunge, backed by every ounce of his
strength, sent him flying toward the passing car. His fingers
clutched at the slippery rear deck, encountered the spare tire
carrier. "X" was jerked off his feet and dragged along the
pavement. But somehow, he regained his balance, and, as the car
turned into the alley, he sprang onto the rear deck.

He dropped full length on the smooth, rounding surface. His
right hand extended until his fingers closed over the back of the
seat. He drew himself forward. The two occupants of the seat did
not move. "X" tumbled forward into the lap of the passenger. Even
through the cloth of the man's suit, he could feel the chill of
hard, dead flesh.

CHAPTER XII — BATTLE OF THE TITANS

THE black mystery car slowed up in front of a high brick wall.
Beyond the wall, "X" could see the old Georgian roof of the house
it enclosed. Rusty iron gates creaked open at a touch from the
mystery car's bumper. Gears shifted soundlessly by an unseen hand,
and the car glided up an unkempt gravel drive, tall grass rustling
against its running gear. Headlights flashing on the garage doors
opened them. The garage was large enough for four cars, but the
mystery car came to a stop just inside the doors. The garage doors
closed magically.

"X" was out of the car before the motor stopped. He stood
perfectly still, waited. A slight sound of a well-oiled mechanism
in motion, then complete silence.

A smile played across the Agent's lips. He dropped flat on the
floor and rolled beneath the car. Fortunately, his pen-flashlight
had not been taken from him. He turned on the light and sent its
beam up at the underside of the car. A small V-type engine was
mounted over the front axle of the car; it could not have occupied
more than a third of the length of the nose of the car.

Directly above "X's" head was a sliding steel plate. He moved it
aside, revealing an opening—a means of entering a compartment
hidden in the cowl of the car. As "X" had guessed, the car was
actually driven by a man concealed beneath the cowl. The corpses
had been placed in the seat simply to attract police bullets.

The mounted machine guns in the hands of the dead men were
operated by remote control by the hidden driver beneath the cowl.
An ingenious system of mirrors enabled the hidden driver to see
clearly the road ahead and to the sides through the three cowl
ventilators.

It was little wonder that the police had failed to stop the car.
They had directed their shots toward the harmless corpses in the
seat, when actually the killer was safely concealed in the
armor-plate compartment beneath the cowl. The killer had ghoulishly
robbed the grave of Slash Carmody and others to obtain the corpses
which he used as decoys in the car.

Where he lay upon the floor, "X" was directly above a sliding
steel plate in the floor of the garage. By means of this door, the
killer had managed secret entrances into the mystery car. Probably
his own men were under the impression that the mystery car was
robot driven.

"X" rolled away from the sliding door, and pushed it open. A
black hole yawned up at him, and he could smell the damp odor of
earth. Without hesitation, "X" dropped into the pit below. This was
evidently a passage similar to the one "X" had explored when he had
visited the Pyke house.

Suddenly, "X's" keen ears heard a sound of heavy breathing. His
hands struck out, encountered a tightly drawn piece of wire.
Instantly, the tunnel was lighted. Forty feet ahead of him, stood a
man—a man whose face was the replica of Jim Hobart's. He
seemed to have no sort of weapon. He was simply leaning on a crude
wooden lever that stuck out of the wooden floor. His shoulders
shook with silent laughter.

"People who don't know this passage generally get tangled up in
my burglar alarm system," he said. "This place, Agent 'X,' is my
last stand against the police—and against you. It has been
carefully prepared to insure my security. For instance, I shall be
forced to kill you in a few seconds. It shall be done quite simply,
and in a manner that you will find quite unavoidable. You will be
found by the police at a later date. I rather imagine they will be
able to identify you—from your real face.

"As you may have imagined, I took an impression of your real
face when you were unconscious and in my power. I made a perfect
mask from your face in that plastic substance known as 'synthetic
flesh.' That mask I have carefully hidden. As soon as you are dead,
it will be turned over to the police. They will identify you from
it. Agent 'X' will be pronounced dead. They will look no farther
for the man behind the Corpse Legion."

"X" inched nearer the master criminal.

The man broke into a sardonic laugh. "No, no, Agent 'X'. You
cannot trick me. Were you to shoot me from where you stand, you
would die the same way. Don't bother with trickery. It will avail
you nothing."

Every muscle in the Agent's body was drawn tense. While the
killer had been talking, he had advanced five feet. The man was
still far away. Probably, he was armed, while the Agent had only
his bare fists. He must entrust everything to his own agility and
strength.

But even as the Agent sprang forward, the killer leaned full
weight upon the lever in his hands. There was a deep, rumbling
sound like a distant earthquake. Timbers in the walls and ceiling
of the passage creaked, buckled. A beam fell across "X's"
shoulders, knocking him to the floor. He struggled to rise, but at
that moment, the sky seemed to fall upon him. An avalanche of earth
and wood descended. Then all was smothered in blackness.

STUNNED, but only for a moment, "X" regained consciousness to
find himself entombed alive. He was in a situation that would have
driven another man stark mad; but "X" considered his position
sanely, knowing that with only a limited supply of air, a few
minutes of panic might be fatal. Though earth and timber covered
him, it was not impossible to move. The beam that had fallen
prematurely had struck him to the floor of the tunnel, but it had
also fallen aslant of another wooden member. Now, that same beam
supported the greater part of the wreckage and prevented the weight
of the fallen structure from crushing him.

Opening his eyes, "X" found that a few starry points of light
filtered through the debris only a few feet ahead of him. As he had
dropped his flashlight when the tunnel had caved in, he was forced
to work blindly. He pulled aside a splintered board in front of
him, and wormed his way forward. Digging in the dirt, he dislodged
another piece of wreckage and thrust it to one side. He pushed
aside loose earth, and found that he was able to thrust his head
through an opening. He saw that only that part of the tunnel in
which he had been standing had collapsed.

Not far ahead, where the killer stood, the timbers were still
sound. "X" realized that the gang leader, in constructing the
tunnel, had concealed cables, levers and wires in such a manner
that moving a single lever would release the whole flimsily
constructed passage. This trap had not been particularly prepared
for Agent "X," but was a simple means for the killer to burn his
bridges behind him or bottle up his enemies in case of
emergency.

It meant straining every muscle to the utmost; for once he had
crawled from beneath the sheltering beam, he had to carry
tremendous weight of the wreckage on his back. Fully ten minutes
must have passed before "X" wormed clear of the pile of earth and
wood and was able to stand upright. Ten minutes! His foe might have
escaped in that time.

Agent "X" hurried, as quickly as caution would permit, up the
passage to a rude flight of stairs at its terminal. He climbed the
steps to bump against a round manhole cover set in the floor above.
He raised it slowly and peered into a basement, evidently that of
the old house which had been the destination of the mystery car.
The room was dimly lighted and apparently deserted.

He pushed the iron manhole cover up farther, seized its rim to
prevent it from falling back on the basement floor, and climbed
through the opening. Quietly, he lowered the cover into place.

THE room housed the furnace and coal bin. It was when he opened
an unpainted door in the west wall that he made an important
discovery. Precious as time was, he stood in the door staring about
him. And from every conceivable inch of wall space, faces out of
the past, faces of men long since dead, stared back at him with
hollow, sightless eyes. They were masks that were perfect replicas
of human faces. Beneath each one was a label. Near at hand, he saw
the mask of "Big Tim" Riley, gang boss of prohibition days. Next to
the Riley mask was another fashioned after the face of dead Willy
Hymes. Everywhere were death masks, accurately tinted. This
explained what "X" had long since guessed—that the
corpse-gang was made up of living men wearing the faces of the
dead.

"X's" eyes hurried about the room. He was hunting for one face
that did not belong to a criminal. The future of Betty Dale
depended upon him finding the mask that the gang leader had made in
her image. Otherwise, she would eventually be hounded by the
police. Only the mask of Betty Dale would prove to the police that
she was not the person seen behind the mystery car's machine
gun.

At the opposite end of the room, beside the one vacancy in the
otherwise unbroken line of criminal death masks, he saw the
lifelike features of Betty Dale. He hurried across the room and
took the mask from the wall. It was made of very thin, flexible
material—so flexible that when worn over the face, facial
expressions on the mask were made possible by moving the muscles of
the real face beneath.

"X" concealed the mask of Betty Dale beneath his coat, and was
about to turn away when he noticed the vacancy on the wall near by.
Two masks had hung there; the labels were still in place. One label
read 'Jim Hobart.' The other read 'The real face of Secret Agent
"X"'.

So anxious had "X" been to find the mask that would clear Betty
Dale, that he had forgotten for the moment that the master criminal
was in possession of a record of the Agent's true features. He
remembered the killer's threat—the police were to find the
mask that recorded the real face of Agent "X" and they were to
compare it with the real face of the man entombed in the passage
below.

"X" sprang toward the door leading from the room. Perhaps he was
already too late. Perhaps the master criminal had already sent the
mask to the police.

From the next room, stairs extended up to the first floor of the
house. "X" raced to the top and turned into a kitchen. From there,
he cut across the dining room to come to a stop in front of a door
leading from an old-fashioned reception hall. He stopped to listen.
On the other side of that door, a voice was speaking:

"Hello, police headquarters. This is Dr. Jules Planchard
speaking. I was kidnapped by the corpse-gang. I have just made my
escape from the leader of the gang—the man called Secret
Agent 'X.' I was pursued by this 'X' person when I ran through a
passage leading from the garage to the house...Yes, I am certain
that the man is Agent 'X.' I alone have seen his true face. What is
more, I have a permanent record of that face—a mask made by
the Agent himself. Death masks seem to be his hobby-masks of the
persons he has impersonated. You will find the mask of "X's" true
face in a Gladstone bag in the living room of the old Van Startz
house. He was really quite an artist along that line...Yes, was.
Agent 'X' is dead. You will find his body in the tunnel leading
from the garage to the Van Startz house. The tunnel caved in while
he was pursuing me.

Agent "X" tried the knob of the door. It was locked. His master
keys had gone the way of his other special equipment. He backed
away from the door, hunched his shoulders, and flung himself upon
the panel. The lock burst. He catapulted into the room and sprang
toward the desk where sat a man in blue overalls. "X's" right hand
rammed into his empty coat pocket, his forefinger outthrust so that
it appeared his coat pocket covered a gun.

"I have you covered!" he barked.

The man in blue overalls calmly pushed aside the telephone, and
turned around. His breath hissed through the mask that cleverly
counterfeited the face of Jim Hobart. "How unfortunate," he
murmured softly. "How very unfortunate that you haven't got a gun.
Really, you don't think I would have undertaken to impersonate you
without learning something about your methods, do you? You have no
liking for lethal weapons. Now, I have no foolish scruples about
taking human life."

"Quite evident," replied the Agent.

The man at the desk laughed softly. He opened a drawer in the
desk, calmly took out an automatic. "Do you happen to know who I
am, Agent 'X'?"

"X" NODDED. "I knew just as soon as I understood how the
corpse-gang was created. No man in the country knows as much about
criminal physiognomy as you do. You have had access to all police
records. In the past, you have known every criminal who was
impersonated by members of your gang. You have made death masks
before!"

"X" took a step toward the desk. "Oddly enough," he continued,
"the personal trait which told me who you were, you were unable to
disguise by any mask. Perhaps, it is only a habit of yours that you
have overlooked in your impersonations. Perhaps, it is a physical
defect. The other night when we visited the Stinehope bank
building, you found your opportunity to fade out.

"The raid on the Stinehope bank, you arranged ahead of
time—just as soon as you learned that Foster and I were going
to the bank. That raid had a double purpose. Not only did the gang
manage to save the loot it had stored in the bank vault, but it
gave you a chance to fade out of the picture. You wrote that note
saying that Stinehope had been kidnapped, when actually—"

The killer's laugh broke through "X's" sentence. "So I am
Stinehope!"

"Still trying to run a bluff?" asked "X" quietly.

The killer stood up and took a step toward "X." The automatic in
his hand was unwavering. "Bluff? Of course, I'm bluffing. My entire
life has been a bluff to hide my hatred of the law—and the
men who represent it. Day after day I have schooled myself until I
can impersonate any male voice. Then I sought for the perfect
disguise, I was already skilled in the making of death masks. I
needed something to produce practical masks as pliant as human
flesh.

"Synthetic flesh solved my problem. Do you think I am after
wealth? Only for what it can buy—the service of killers. I
built up my army from the discontented victims of the depression
and from groups of wealthy young thrill seekers. With my flexible
masks, they were able to impersonate criminals who had long since
died. I told them that the police would be too terrified to raise a
hand against them. Actually, it was because of my machine gun
bullets that the police had no opportunity to come in actual
conflict with my men!

"I have killed over a hundred police, and my career is not yet
finished. But yours, Agent 'X', has come to a definite end. And you
will die without knowing who I really am!"

"X" held up his hand. "Never for a moment have I imagined you
were Stinehope. Stinehope died the night your gang was forced to
raid the Stinehope Bank in order to recover the loot. You were the
first member of the gang to enter the bank that night. When you met
Stinehope in the Krausman store that day, you immediately noticed
that he was about your build and of the same blond complexion. Even
then you must have planned that when you wanted to retire to
safety, Stinehope would die and his body be panned off for
yours.

"That night in the bank, you killed Stinehope after getting him
to the top floor of the bank building. Then you came down to direct
the activities of your men. I knew you were there. I did not see
you, but I heard you breathe. It was that odd habit of yours of
breathing forcefully in tense moments that gave you away.

"Then, as soon as you saw that Foster and I had a chance to
escape, you went up the fire escape to the room where you had left
Stinehope. You obliterated his features so that his body could not
have been told from yours. You changed clothes with him. You wrote
that note accounting for Stinehope's disappearance. Then you threw
Stinehope out of the window. If you had only been able to work
without breathing—"

The gun in the killer's hand jerked. A bullet sung past "X's"
head. Another plumped into his chest and was stopped by the
bullet-proof vest he always wore. "X" hurled himself at the killer.
His fingers caught the man's wrist. A quick wrench, and the gun
spun across the floor. Then the murderer knew the might of Agent
"X." He attempted to dig his nails into "X's" throat. "X" launched
a terrific right that pounded into the killer's chest, driving out
his breath and sending him toppling backwards to fold across the
desk. His hands grasped thin air as he tried to struggle to his
feet.

Then, a sudden, dull plop. "X" saw the killer's legs jerk. The
man rolled from the desk, clutching at the front of his overalls. A
dark stain was already spreading across the blue denim. He
staggered backwards and collapsed on the floor.

"X" PIVOTED. Coming slowly across the room, dragging a rusty
chain that was attached to his left leg, was a very dirty, very
haggard Jules Planchard. The plastic surgeon stared dully at the
man on the floor. The silenced gun drooped in his extended
hand.

"Dead," he whispered like a man in a dream. "I have killed him.
Weeks I have hunted the man who stole my formula for synthetic
flesh. I had worked on it for years. It was the only artificial
substance in the world that might have been grafted to living
tissue. I had it nearly perfected. Then, he stole all my notes.
Stole them through that damned woman I thought my
friend—Felice Vincart. I should have killed her, too. The
spy! Then he brought me here because he was afraid of me. He would
have killed me had not Felice Vincart begged him not to. She loved
me once—though she stole from me. But now—but now I
have killed him!" His voice rose to an hysterical pitch. "I have
killed him!"

Suddenly, the gun in the hands of Jules Planchard came up. He
thrust the muzzle into his own mouth.

"Stop!" Secret Agent "X" sprang toward the crazed doctor. But
before he could reach him, the gun had popped. Planchard fell
forward on his face.

"X" stooped over the fallen doctor. He picked up the silenced
automatic which had fallen from his hands after his suicide. He put
the gun into his pocket, and went over to the desk. He took a piece
of paper from the memo pad and scribbled a note. He removed the
mask of Betty Dale from his coat and was placing it beside the note
when he was suddenly aware of a harsh, familiar voice shouting in
the next room.

For a moment, the Agent's heart stood still. He sprang to the
door. Hand on the knob, he paused. In the room beyond, he
distinctly heard the voice of Inspector Burks. Furthermore, he
could make out the inspector's words:

"The telephone call referred to a black bag that contained the
real face of Agent 'X'," Burks was saying. "This must be the
one."

Agent "X" yanked the door open.

The silenced gun was in his hand. Burks and a plainclothes man
were facing a small black traveling bag on the davenport in the
living room. Burks' fingers were on the clasps!

Not for a fraction of a second did "X" hesitate. His future
activities depended entirely upon the speed and accuracy of his
movements. The silenced gun plopped once. It was a snap shot that
nicked the handle of the black bag. Burks uttered a startled oath,
and let it drop. He turned, snatching at his gun. But in the time
required for Burks and his companion to turn, "X" had crossed the
room to within a few feet of where they stood. Apparently, without
aiming, "X" squeezed the trigger of the silenced gun a second time.
Total darkness. The bullet had shattered the only light globe in
the room.

"The bag!" Burks shouted. "Grab the bag!" And Burks himself
grasped at blackness, encountered a coat-sleeved arm, and hung on.
He led a powerful right hook that landed. The arm in his hand went
limp. A body sagged to the floor.

"Got him!" he shouted. "Lights, somebody!"

AS police burst through the French doors of the living room,
flashlights lanced the gloom. Burks stared down at the man he had
knocked out. It was one of his own detectives.

From out of nowhere, came a strange, eerie whistle. Burks sprang
to the open front door. "This way!" he shouted. "Surround the
house. Search the grounds!"

But his search was in vain. A few minutes later, a young
detective came running excitedly to the inspector.

"He's dead!" shouted the man. "Secret Agent 'X' is dead!" He
seized the inspector's arm and dragged him into the library where
Planchard had committed murder and suicide.

"The guy with the mustache is Dr. Jules Planchard!" explained
the young detective. "I remember seeing him in the papers. The
other guy—"

"He looks exactly like that private dick, Hobart, we pulled out
of the closet in Memorial Hall." Burks cut in.

"Looks that way," said the enthusiastic young detective. "But
it's just a mask. Don't you get it? This guy must be Secret Agent
'X'!"

Burks knelt beside the corpse. With fingers that trembled with
excitement, he lifted the flexible mask that covered the gang
leader's face.

"Good Lord!" he breathed. "Why, he was supposed to be dead! Why,
of all the fakes!" He gripped his companion's arm. "I begin to see!
By heaven, no wonder he knew what all the old-time criminals looked
like. Why, he was a nut on making death masks of criminals, in the
old days. When Foster hears this, it'll damn near kill him!"

"Who is it, inspector?" asked the young detective, leaning over
Burks' shoulder.

"Who is it? Well, it's the ex-police commissioner of this city!
It's Major Derrick himself! He retired several years ago when a
policeman accidentally shot and killed his son. That must have been
why he wanted to square things with the police!"

"But look at this mask on the desk," said another man. "It's the
face of that girl reporter on the Herald!"

Burks strode to the desk, picked up the mask of Betty Dale and
looked at it inside and out. Then he regarded the note which rested
beside it. Aloud, he read:

"This will clear Betty Dale, won't it, Burks? In the basement of
this house, you will find many masks of many people who are dead or
alive. You will understand how Derrick created the corpse gang.
Derrick used this mask to frame Betty Dale—probably because
her father was on the police force when Derrick's son was killed.
Sorry to deprive you of the pleasure of seeing my face. But look
around you. Perhaps I am in this room right now!"

A tiny letter "X" was penciled at the bottom of the note.

Burk's eyes darted about the room. "Every man inside this room
and close the door!" he ordered. "I'm going to see which of you has
make-up on his face!"

The group of detectives looked at each other as though they
thought Burks had suddenly lost his mind. And little wonder; for a
mile or more away, one lonely man stood in a completely equipped
scientific laboratory. It was a room known only to Secret Agent
"X."

Light from the door of a small portable furnace cast strange,
ruddy lights over the man's features—irregular and dirt
smeared features they were, for the Agent's make-up had undergone
considerable damage in the past thirty or forty minutes.

He stood perfectly still, fascinated by the flames inside the
furnace. If one might have been permitted to look over the Agent's
shoulder, one might have seen a strange thing in the heart of the
flames. It was a little terrifying. Red and yellow tongues of fire
licked up and around what appeared to be a human head—or at
least a human face. The features were sagging, becoming more and
more distorted as the flames devoured it.

But it was not a human head. It was only a mask, perfectly
modeled after the true features of the living Secret Agent. No man
would ever see the like again.